


The Thief, The Spider, and The Hotel

by LazBriar



Series: The Thief, The Spider, and the Hotel [1]
Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Alcohol, Anal, Angel Dust/Reader - Freeform, Anonymous character, Blow Jobs, Drugs, F/F, Fellatio, Flirting, Gay Characters, Gay Sex, Gen, Hazbin Hotel - Freeform, Long, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Multiple Sex Positions, Oral, Original Character(s), POV Second Person, Smut, Story Progression, Straight Characters, Teasing, Violence, f/f - Freeform, gay relationships, m/m - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2019-11-01 21:07:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 107,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17874860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LazBriar/pseuds/LazBriar
Summary: You're Anon: Master Thief! Cast out in the slums of hell, you pluck the pockets of demons from every corner of Pentagram City! You have dreams of grandeur and a hunger for the most precious vaults of the underworld, and this greed leads to strange bedfellows."Saved" by the foul-mouthed, infamous harlot Angel Dust, you discover more than just a hooker with a hankering for quick cash.A series suitable for those infatuated by the mysteries of Pentagram City, while desiring a relationship with Angel beyond the bed.Completed 5/21/2019.





	1. Money is Money, Baby

**Author's Note:**

> As of the completion of this story, the pilot of Hazbin Hotel has not been released. As such, I've taken great care to keep things as close to the chest as possible with what few details are available. Some liberties are taken in service of the plot. The events take place before, during, and after the pilot (based on the assumptions of trailers).
> 
> That said, enjoy. Buckle up, you've got quite the journey ahead.

 

_In your prime, in your mortal life, you were a thief, an architect of the heist. From convenience store to bank did you plan and scheme your way through the world, moving from one massive robbery to the next. But one day, things went awry, and a reflexive bullet from a repugnant officer brought you low. Now your soul is cast to the bowels of Hell, in this place called Pentagram City. But you’ve found even in Lucifer’s domain, there’s money to be made._

_Sometimes, though, your desire for cash leads you to strange bedfellows. . ._

_[Your Theme](https://youtu.be/UM1owquLl_s) _

-*-

The _Gadzooks Gang_ might have had an upper hand in muscle when it came to smearing the streets with the guts of their enemies, but they weren’t so good at protecting their fat stacks of cash. Oh, it was just too easy! A controlled explosion, a smoke bomb, some quick confusion capitalization! Hah! Before the bastards could even _blink_ you were already out the door, suit pockets layered with demonic denars, sack bloated with ill-gotten gains.

“Gadzooks!” they cried. “We dun’ been robbed!”

 _That’s right you twisted shits,_ you mused in self-fellating satisfaction, _you’ve been had by the wiley wits of me, Anon!_

Of course, you didn’t _say_ this. Not to them. Not directly. More like, tiny, handful, couple, few hundred yards away from one of their operating “bases.” And you didn’t say it, you just thought it. But you would, eventually, once you got your own posse together. Yeah, things would be _sweet_ then. All of _Pentagram City_ would shudder at the incredible guile of Anon: Master Thief! And then you’d strut right back to them (behind an entourage of armed guards) and shout: that’s right! I robbed you! Such was your art, after all.

It deserved better, this city, this little pocket of Satan’s spunk. It was a mess! Some disorganized nightmare of violence, drugs, and monstrous orgies! Every other year, or so you learned, it had to cleanse itself of, well, _itself,_ just to maintain a sense of order. Vagrants and demons and abominations from all walks of the afterlife slammed together, carving up pockets of self-indulgent cliques until they perished under the weight of their own sin. Or died. Mostly died.

How does one die _twice_? You didn’t know. Not that you specifically cared, _your_ interest was getting fucking _rich._ And luckily, Hell was all about the pursuit of one’s own desires, no matter how perverse. It was a reflection of the world’s ugliness, as one might expect, a dizzying carnival of brightly colored nightmares and substances. You fit right in. Just had to avoid the “getting your immortal soul torn to pieces” part.

You had big plans for this city. A grand heist, a marvelous display of extreme wit and skill to which all the eyes of every demon and succubus would have no choice but to marvel at! Your triumph would be legendary, even in hell! You just had to get the posse together. And the supplies. And your own hideout. And money. . .

Pah! A minor setback. Sure, you were rushing down the neon-soaked streets of an unfriendly underworld with _no weapon_ and _no_ _escape_ and _no wheelman,_ but things could be worse! Why, you could be getting chased by the Gadzooks Gang as they threatened to strangle you by your own entrails!

“We’re gonna’ strangle you with your own entrails, fucker!”

Oh.

The indelicate roar of an ugly vehicle caught your attention, an array of unsightly fellows just _pouring_ out the windows with their rabid gazes, frothy pig-faces contorting with a series of swears. And hands. Hands which held meat hooks and chains and bats and _oh god was that a dildo covered in razor blades._

So, suppose you should’ve picked a better escape route than running down the street in a single, straight line. But live and learn, eh? There were always options for Anon: Master Thief!

You bumbled into a figure as you quickened your dash, an irate demon in sleazy jacket with dismal green skin and features like a mangled serpent.

“Wuzzafuck!?” it said. Oh, hey, an option!

“Hey buddy,” you say wearing a panicked grin. “Wanna get rich?”

It eyes you, confused. “Wuh?”

Ahh, no good deed without sacrifice. In other words, you’ll have to burn some of this fresh cash to make space. You yank out a few bills, waving it in the demon’s face, who apparently gets the idea. You toss said wad into the street, of which the thing promptly jumps after. As do – to your surprise – many others.

With a smug chuckle, you round a corner, coming across a little four way. A pack of dim-witted fools should give you enough ti-

There’s a sound that’s like meat getting thrown into a mass grinder, accompanied by the screams and grunts of inhuman entities, intermixed with raining limbs. _Oh._ Well, it appears the Gadzooks giving you the hot chase decided to uh, run _right the fuck through the crowd._ Suppose you aren’t that surprised, but it doesn’t help when the freshly blood-painted death vehicle comes billowing down the road, ready to turn you into a hood ornament.

Great! So, running wasn’t really an option. And you’re low on those. So, you fling yourself to the opposite street into yet more crowds of demons. There are plenty of other vehicles and bodies between you and the ‘zooks to give you _some_ space until you figure out what to do.

Oh, but these ass-angry low tier gangsters just won’t quit! One spotted you through the mess of silhouettes you slipped into and now the hoggish monstrosities are after you on foot. You’re not fond of getting acquainted with their _equalizers_ so you speed it up, though you’re starting to attract a lot of attention. Various high-value bills are a-flutterin’ from your pockets and bag, much to the delight of the street denizens. Bah.

“Oh shit, free money!” you hear one of them say.

Free money!? What? That’s _your_ hard-earned stolen cash! At this rate, every nobody in Pentagram City was going to leech off your nefarious deeds! You needed to end this chase, and quick.

More denizens were gathering, following the trail of misbegotten wealth behind you. You swore enough times even Lucifer might blush; the more this kept up the easier it was for those damned Gadzooks to keep chase – not to mention your slow drop in stolen status! With an agonized grunt, you eyed your money sack with tearful apprehension, like it was a precious child. You still had stacks in your generous inner-coat pockets, but _most_ of your earnings resided in the bag.

But if you didn’t make a better distraction, the Gadzooks would turn you into tomorrow’s soup. _Fucking FINE._ Looking to the growing crowd, you bid your bag an adieu and lobbed it into the unsuspecting crowds. It crashed open and stolen bills vomit out like a swarm of butterflies, much to the protest of the Gadzooks. Naturally, the greedy scum of the city emerged from every rat-infested corner to take some for their own, only to receive the business end of a gang member’s blunt instrument as they attempt to both move them out of the way and stop demons from stealing the stolen money. It’s a complete mess of violence and disorganized chaos, completely beneath you. But it worked.

With a mournful sigh, you take to another street corner, putting as much distance between you and the crowds of fund-fornicating entities. You can’t help but glance behind you every other second, certain the monstrous roar of a scarlet stained car would come screeching after you. Luckily, it doesn’t happen.

What _does_ happen is you graze the side of something and lose your balance, careening into the unforgiving sidewalk with an ugly _thud._

“GFFCK!”

Your face slaps the side of concrete, dizzying you. Shit. But you don’t have time to whinge about the pain exploding in your face, you need to keep moving.

“Hey, chucklefuck, watch it will ya’? Ya' almost mussed m'suit.”

And _now_ you’re getting chastised? Seething, you rise from the ground to confront the source of your current predicament, grimacing.

You’ve seen a lot of things in Hell, but this one takes you off guard, even for demonic standards. A lithe frame adorned in pinstripe suit begotten by white fluff and frightening eyes casts you a dismissive glance, his multiple arms wiping off the regal fabric wrapped around his effeminate frame. You say _he,_ because despite the robust, female appearance, his voice is a giveaway.

You feel like you recognize him, and he’s certainly better dressed than half the schmucks around these parts. Your spike of anger recedes as you wobble, nursing your fresh injury.

He smirks, chuckling in mock of the red streaming down your forehead.

“Might wanna’ get that looked at, pal.”

You wipe the warm wetness from your brow, looking past him. The sounds of the crowd are distant, but those Gadzooks still aren’t far off. They’re going to find you right quick if you don’t do something _now._ As much as you want to pelt this bystander with a flurry of insults and fists, you have to reconsider.

Ignoring pretense, you decide to gamble on this demonic spider. That’s what you figure him for, what else could be bloody fucking be? You wipe some of the crimson muck from your face and try to adorn a pleasant demeanor, as pleasant as one can appear with a thin river of scarlet dripping down their dome.

“Look, buddy, listen, you gotta’ hide me,” you say, frantically glancing down the street. “Got some real unpleasant chaps who want to turn me inside out. I could _really_ use a place to hide!”

Asking a demon in Hell for help is like introducing capitalism in Russia, and the dapper chap gives you a look like you’ve pissed on his snazzy boots.

“You can’t be serious,” he says, running a gloved hand through hair. . . tuft. “You almost scratched my one of a kind _Valentino._ Get split sideways.”

That’s not really what you wanted to hear. Nor did you like hearing the ever-nearing approach of Gadzooks thugs cleaving their way through an ever-thinning gathering of demons. Either this delicate bag of ice-queen fuckoff got you out of here or you were in for some serious hurt.

“Besides, I don’t do the whole ‘kindness of my heart’ thing, you. . .”

He trailed off. His wandering eye – a black sun seating a pink iris – strolls over one of your pockets and sees a frail bill waggle free.

“Wha, hahahey now, what’s dis?”

He smirks, and with practiced swiftness lets a few digits roam into your inner pockets, noting the _very_ healthy bulge of bills you carry. His expression shifts from agitated to mischievous curiosity.

“I didn’t know you were _packin,_ hot stuff,” he said, stripping a bill free, stretching it with two of his extra hands.

“This changes everything.”

He gives the bill a lick, like it’s a sumptuous appetizer, and it might as well be.

“Ya’ know, I _just_ remembered, I'mma bit more inclined t'help out a poor pathetic soul. . . for the right price.”

Dammit, you were trying to _avoid_ a bribe. You already tossed most of your earnings! Now this? You grimace, anxiety pelting your chest.

“Yeah, sure, whatever” you say. “I got more where that came from if you _get me the fuck out of here.”_

He gives you a grin most malicious, gold tooth catching the pink city lights. He took you by the arm, leading you down the street – away from the mob – tongue clicking. You suppose this will do, and you figure he might know a hidden path or two to put you at advantage.

“Someone did somethin'  _very bad,_ huh?” he continued, sauntering along the roadside, free arm waiving for a cab.

You aren’t about to engage this salacious spider with your master plans. He couldn’t possibly comprehend the great schemes of Anon, such as exploding walls and feverishly putting cash in bags. There was no need to indulge him!

“What’s it to you?” you say.

He taps your chest, specifically the wads of bills you’ve stuffed within your suit.

“All of _dat,_ troublemaker.”

A cab pulls up soon after, a black vehicle with gauche, pink interior. Demons had no sense of style, it appeared. But you’re not after a ride, you need a hiding spot.

“I didn’t need a _cab!”_ you say.

“Oh yes ya' do,” he shoots back. “Nobody stops for randos around these parts. Only primo-stars, like _me._ Now shut up n'get inside, moneybags.”

Getting into a small space with an unfamiliar, pompous, foul-mouthed spider seemed like an utterly terrible idea. But what other option did you have, aside from giving yourself up and beginning life anew as a meat popsicle?

With a swift shove, the fellow nudges you inside the cab and joins you afterward, slamming the door. The cab driver – a massive _eye_ surrounded by tendrils – looks back at you expectantly.

“Get us on the other side of town,” says your ‘savior’ to the driver. “And keep it nice and steady like. We don’t want our new friend gettin’ in more trouble, eh?”

The massive eye makes a noise and sets the vehicle in motion, putting you on a path away from violent, brutal death. For a moment, a sense of relief washes over you. Only replaced with new wellsprings of concern, because you don’t know who this is or where you’re going. You gambled, now came the payoff or bust.

Perhaps literally, because the spider winds the bill he previously ‘extracted’ from you and stuffed it in his busty front. If he hadn’t spoken, you would’ve guessed him for a lady. Not that you’re complaining – the denizens of the underworld are a tapestry of disgusting horrors – someone as put together as him is a welcome relief. But it begs the question: who is he? A Master Thief like yourself needed to keep a low profile, and nothing about this enigmatic arachnid was low profile.

He gets comfortable, crossing his legs, resting in the excessively cushioned backseat, letting eyes stroll over you again. You don’t notice at first, looking out the rear window, certain the Gadzooks will come flying out of the horizon with various means to impale you. Thus far, there’s nothing, save for the movement of bystanders on the street as the vehicle rumbles down the road. To where, you don’t know.

“So. . .”

His voice catches your attention, his two arms crossed, two reclined on the seat, wearing an intrigued smirk.

“What’s a ditz like you doing with all that cash?”

You turn to him, defensive. “That’s my business.”

He raises his hands. “Take it easy, you’re in good hands. Just curious, ya’know? I did save your ass, didn’t I?”

You grumble. You don’t like the idea of revealing yourself, but you’re in pretty deep now.

“I don’t even know you,” you say, rubbing your head again. The blood is still creeping out, mussing your face.

The spider gives you a glance like you’ve slapped him with a wet fish. He licks his fingers, reaching over to clean your brow. You want to recoil, but his touch is. . . soft, so you allow it.

“Jee-zus, toots. What garbage heap did you crawl out of? Even the bums recognize me.”

Pah! You’re a master planner, you’ve no time for the gossip of Hell!

“Just trying to find a somewhere to hide,” you say. “That doesn’t include _knowing_ people.”

“Yeah, I got that.”

He retrieves a handkerchief and finishes cleaning your face.

“Here you are, pockets loaded with bills and you won’t even till little ol’ me about the dirty deed _?”_

You don’t trust him. Not yet. “You don’t exactly strike me as the empathetic type,” you say.

He feigns a wounded look. “Oh nooo, you got it all wrong, toots. I’m _very_ concerned about my fellow slimeball.”

You peer at him. “Because of the money.”

“It don’t hurt.”

He senses your apprehension, so a hand comes creeping to your shoulder, giving a little rub.

“Relax, sweetheart, I ain’t trying to rob you, and I don’t bite. Unless you want me to.” He winks.

Is he. . . trying to flirt with you? You can’t tell. And if you weren’t so preoccupied with not dying, you might consider his advance. Well, at any rate, you’re short on options and shorter on friends. So, you concede.

Sighing, you explain. “Fine, fine. I’m Anon. I’m trying to lay low because I robbed the Gadzooks Gang. It was my first masterfully executed heist, you see.”

You start to go into detail about the effort and lengths you went to, the days it required to plan effectively, but you’re cut off when your ‘friend’ bursts out laughing.

“Holeee _SHIT!”_ he barks, coughing with guffaws. “You robbed those _gag-me_ Gadzooks? You?”

He buckles over, continuing to laugh, wiping a tear from eye. You’re not sure if this is a good thing.

“Yes?”

He settles down, beaming with chortles. “Oh, those dollar store, cock faced rejects been havin’ it coming for a long time! I wish I coulda’ seen the look on their dumbfuck faces.”

It was angry, you remembered. Very, very angry.

And you had no idea they held such reputation. As far as you knew, the Gadzooks Gang were first on a long list of marks you planned to demolish with spectacular robberies. But apparently, it was winning you some favor. Lots of favor, as the fellow slides in closer, a lithe arm coming around your shoulder.

“I’m really starting to like you, pockets.”

“It’s Anon.”

“Yeah? Sure you don’t want it to be sugar daddy?”

You blink. Your savior snickers again.

“Oh come on, ain’t nothing like a little stress relief after getting chased around, right?”

You shift, uncertain. This fellow is wearing a lovely perfume and it’s a welcome break from the stench of blood and carnage clogging the veins of Pentagram City. He’s not so bad looking either. Enticing, even. His body is draped in thin veil of silk-like fur, white cream, spotted with pink freckles like a morning dessert. His come-hither eyes are full of promise, and you wager his mouth is good for more than just antagonistic quips.

“I don’t even know your _name,”_ you say.

His two extra hands adjust the little black bowtie resting above his puffy ‘bust.’

“Angel Dust, sweetie, at your service. Criminal extraordinaire around these parts, among things.”

The extra hand makes a motion like it’s stroking something. It’s not really hard to figure what this Angel Dust means.

“You’re named after a drug?” you say. You want to be surprised, but somehow, it’s so expected.

Angel Dust beams. “You bet, toots, ‘cause I’m fuckin’ addictive.”

You look behind you again, out back window. There’s nothing there, save for the towering silhouettes of the inner city.  As far as things look, you’re safe, unless your frisky friend is leading you to a trap. He is a spider, after all.

“Nobody’s gonna’ hurt you now, my wealthy comrade,” says Angel Dust, pushing his frame closer to yours. “Not unless you’re into that.”

A head shake. You are most certainly _not._ Though, you suppose if Angel Dust wanted to hurt you he could’ve already. Not like the demons around these parts hid their motives, and despite how forward he was, he’d yet to do anything to cause you concern.

“Where are we going?” you ask.

He whirls a finger in the air, his hand massaging your shoulder still. “Nice little dive where I set up these days. It’s uh, a hotel, newly renovated.”

“That sounds like it’ll attract a lot of attention,” you say. Hotels had visitors, didn’t they? Visitors meant eyes, and eyes were witnesses.

“Naw, it’s all exclusive-like. I mean, I’m in it, how bad can it be?”

You don’t know how a hotel can be ‘exclusive’ and nothing about Angel Dust is subtle. But it’s something. And, his continued proximity is starting to drag your thoughts to other things. Your anxiety is receding, your comfort is growing, and the continued attentions of the spider are putting you in a different kind of mood. Maybe it’s the adrenalin, the post-glow of a narrow death-defying escape. Maybe it’s the way he keeps trying to eye-fuck you. Maybe it’s his hand on your crotch.

You stiffen. So does another part of you.

“Nn, uhh, aren’t we moving a little fast?”

He’s grinning at you. “Some would say it ain’t fast enough.”

You exhale. A blossom of warm tingles radiates from his touches, clever digits finding all the right ways to squeeze.

“Ooh, did I find the good spot?” he teases. “I knew you was packin’ bills but looks like you’re stuffing something else in here too. . .”

Surely you, Anon, Master Thief, can resist the wiles of this underworld harlot for a while longer! Why, a moment ago you were running for your life, and now this? Compose yourself! Your will is strong, befitting a grand tactician capable of robbing. . .

Gah.

Oh, your mind is trailing, because Angel Dust squeezes harder, waking up your root. You’ve come to Pentagram City, hungry with dreams of grandeur and wealth, but now, a different appetite is forming. You shiver, watching his silk-gloved hand work you over, fondling the dimensions of your hidden shaft.

“What about him?” you grunt, gesturing to the driver.

“Mm? Oh.”

Angel Dust taps the seat with one of his free arms. “Ey’, specks, little privacy for me and my special friend, eh?”

The eye produces a slimy, chortling sound, but apparently understands. A frame of black glass slides up, separating you from the front, enclosing you with Angel Dust. The backseat is dim now, painted only with the faint lights from the city, its raucous ambiance muffled. He pushes his features into your cheek, supplying a kiss.

“Better?”

You clear your throat. “I’m getting comfortable.”

Again, he kisses you, closer to your ear, and his voice adorns a quiet, seductive melody. You’ve got his attention, and he _certainly_ has yours now.

“Gooood, let’s get nice and cozy, pockets. We’re gonna’ get real acquainted-like,” he says with a snicker.

You watch him work, his practiced fingers unhinging button and zipper, your twitching member pulsing behind one more veil of undergarment fabric.

“Hmf, don’t imagine you’re doing this out of the kindness of your heart,” you say, feeling your ill-gotten money metaphorically burn.

Angel Dust offers an approving purr upon seeing your stiffening shaft, nibbling your neck.

“Worry about the price-tag later, pockets,” he says, continuing to pull away your tethers.

You don’t want to because that was the entire bloody point of your robbery! But, his lips are so sweet and wet and soft. His voice is coaxing, calming you down, laden with promises not yet made, of a physical bliss so tauntingly close.

As your briefs are pulled away, your stiff cock springs free, twitching against the cool air. Angel Dust gives a surprised gasp mingled with a dark, hungry growl.

“I thought it was ‘sugar daddy’,” you toss back, your crown dribbling with arousal. You’re met with a wicked giggle.

“Thaaaat’s the spirit, ‘daddy.’ You keep those hundies flowin’ and I’ll call you whatever you want.”

His multiple limbs go to work, with a pair of hands wrapping around your fleshy pillar, stroking with experienced, precise rises and dives, twirling and caressing in all the right ways. His other hands grip you by the shoulders, holding you close, his mouth going from cheek, to brow, to lips, tasting you. Fuck. He _is_ like a drug.

“Mmm, ya’ got a fat fuckin’ dick there, toots,” he says, wiggling your length in hand while the other roams over your testes. “How’d you hide this howitzer?”

You’re pretty sure he’s just laying on the compliments for a bonus, or something. But goddamn if you don’t appreciate it. Your head sinks into the cushion, content to let him work.

“I am a thief, hiding is what I do,” you manage to say, groaning as his strokes continue, hastening in pace.

Angel Dust’s digits squeeze you at the crown. “Well ya’ did a pretty shit job then, huh?”

Normally, you’d give him such a verbal thrashing – or _anyone_ – questioning the skills of you, Anon, Master Thief! But considering your cock was getting serviced by a pretty spider lad, things could be worse. You’ll chalk this one up as a win.

His hands adopt a pendulous momentum, stroking you from base to tip, applying the _perfect_ amount of pressure. Enough to throttle your length, to tease your stones, to caress your veiny prick until it glistens with pre.

“Kah, too bad I can’t kill a key off this thing,” says Angel Dust, free fingers roaming through your hair.

Somehow, this doesn’t surprise you. “Please don’t do drugs on my dick,” you say.

His finger, once trailing through your hair, comes to your lips, where he presses his with yours. He grants an exploring kiss, injecting you with a warm dizziness.

“Don’t knock it til’ you’ve tried it, hot stuff,” he says, adorning you with a bess. “Lucky for you, I’m tryin’ to be a good boy.”

Here, he shifts, lowering his head. In this moment, you realize why these demonic taxis are so spacious, because Angel Dust has _generous_ room to kneel. He’s looking up to you now, eyes wide and servile, full of devilish mischief, wearing his Cheshire grin, gold tooth glinting.

You get the idea. “This is you trying to be good?” you manage to say while his extra hands come to rest on your knees.

He kisses you again, but this time it’s on the tip of your flank. Nice, slow and long smooches come after, an assault of sloppy smacks filling the taxi with the sounds of debauchery. You shudder, groaning in explosive delight. He continues, making sure to supply kisses to every inch of you, each one a steady, lustful pause.

“Baby, you have no idea,” he says with a dark chuckle, pushing your tip into his suckling maw, holding it there. He hums, his other free arms massaging your stones, pulling you further and further into a void of hot, sticky lust.

“Mwwah!”

One more kiss, popping you free, a timid trail of saliva bridging his mouth to your tip.

“Eck, woulda’ brought the lipstick if I knew this was happening,” he says, a finger nudging your cock’s crown.

You’re having a _real_ hard time keeping up with his words. You’re hot, utterly fucking seething. Searing adrenalin is boiling your blood while you drown in _absolute want._ Christ among the dead, you haven’t been this aroused since you planned the _Jay and Pete LLC_ heist when you were alive! Every touch and tease sends radiating bliss through your loins, and it’s hard not to just grab the spider and start ramming yourself into his throat.

Angel Dust isn’t done with you yet. His tongue slips free, taking a long, heady stroke against the underside of your pole, tasting your sex, marinating your inches with his act. He sinks lower, going to your stones, applying extensive, steady licks against your testes, massaging the fat orbs with his mouth. Playful smacks come to them as well, your twitching shaft resting on his visage while he suckles your nuts, murmuring as he does.

“Ah fuck,” you hiss. Using his face as an impromptu cock-rest wasn’t a bliss you were expecting today, but there it is.

Angel Dust is tickled. “Daddy likes?”

You manage a grunt of approval. Angel Dust chuckles, engulfing your stones in his mouth a moment, moaning as he drenches them with attention before releasing with a loud ‘pop.’

You’re wondering how much this will cost you, and then you also start to not care. Heists what? Money who? No wonder demons couldn’t keep their wallets full because the money was going to whores like _him._ Not that you’re complaining, not anymore. The troubles of the Gadzooks Gang seem so far gone now, like a hazy dream.

To continue this bliss-like state, Angel Dust retrieves your flank and proceeds to mush it into his cheeks, the sloppy bellend rubbing against his visage like a lewd makeup.

“Oh god,” you hiss, observing as he outright smacks himself with your member like a self-inflicted punishment.

“Nm? Not around these parts, sweetheart. Just me.”

His wicked expression never fades and it seems the spider’s done toying with his food. His grip tightens on your knees and his maw descends on your length, embracing the hot inches into his moist oral chamber with a loud, audible slurp.

You release an approving, relieved moan, partly for finally getting _in_ that teasing spider and partly because of the heat. God, hot, so fucking hot, in the right ways. You stare in fiendish delight as his slippery, wrapping lips tighten and pull you in, a tedious fall until every inch of you is outright buried in his practiced throat. All the while he keeps his eyes to yours, submissive, rumbling your inches with gagging moans.

For a moment he stays, his throat bulging from the sword it currently hilts, eyes tearing as though he’s challenging himself. Then, he breaks free, taking a swift gasp of air, coughing as his lips dribble with saliva and presex.

“Oh, _fuck._ Hah. Forget the drugs, toots, this shit’s great,” he says, returning to your tip, rubbing it against his lips. “Daddy got that good dick.”

You’re not sure if you’re sold on getting called ‘daddy’ by a rowdy-mouthed spider boy, but you suppose there are worst things. Like, not having your cock inches deep in him, whatever hole that might be.

You don’t have time to postulate on the ‘morality’ of titles, because Angel Dust doesn’t leave you for long. He takes your flank back into his oral chamber again, but this time with feverish gusto. His mouth is tight and hot, searing suckling assaults your pike as he bounces his head off your needy root, a sloppy, loud ambiance accompanying his motions. Every stroke of his head sends rivers of hot tingles through your body, and you can only survive by gripping his hair tuft, mesmerized as he gulps your cock like his life depended on it.

You shiver and groan, a stuttering slurry of mesmerized moans escaping you. You _have_ to cup his head, hold onto him, because if you don’t you feel like you’re going to disappear. He’s so fucking _good._

Again, he released you, panting, opening his mouth. He takes your flank and smacks it against his tongue like it were a perverse baton, letting saliva and presex pour onto it.

“Well don’t fucking _stop!”_ you say, half angry, but mostly pleading.

He nurses you by sliding his mouth against the sides of your cock, moist pressure creating pockets of pleasure wherever he touches.

“Easy baby, or you’re gonna blow like a geyser,” he says, wiggling your tip. “But then again. . .”

He props you against his mouth, showing teeth. For a brief second a strange sense of perverse – yet aroused – fear takes hold, as he taps your bellend against his sharp incisors. But it’s all show, because a second later he’s got you back in his metaphorical web, web meaning his fucking throat.

And he’s fucking you with his throat. He whimpers, throwing you into his maw once again, a dribble of saliva pouring from his chin as he chokes you down, gagging himself on your pulsing member. You can’t help but pressure for more, your hand coaxing him by pushing against his neck as he suckles you, tight, wet pressure entombing your flank. You can feel his seductive tongue work you over too, licking and twisting in serpentine fashion, bringing you close. Close?

Oh yes, so goddamn close. A pillar of release is bubbling, and you need to let it loose and specifically _inside this fucking spider._ Those are not words you ever imagined you’d think, but, here you are.

He seems to catch this before you, because Angel Dust slams his head into your loins, lips close enough they’re nuzzling the threshold of your cock.

“Mmmmmf!” he lets off a girlish, simpering, yet wanting moan, and your bestial root is only so happy to oblige.

You _surge,_ and an explosion of white, sticky seed jettisons from your end, flooding this ‘angel’s’ throat as you pour hot issue into his maw. He winces, eyelids snapping between closed focus and submissive stare, shivering as he steadily gulps down the gooey essence currently deluging his oral chamber.

Oddly, your orgasm lasts _longer_ than you’d expect, enough that Angel Dust pulls back – either out of need or lust – gooey white ropes splattering his grinning visage. He pulls open his mouth with fingers, your issue drenching him, his eyes rolling upward as if this has brought him to some carnal bliss.

His face is aflush, white cream fur tinted rose, panting. You’re about the same, chest hammered with heartbeats, your cock drenched with sticky acts of sex.

“Ah, fuck me, pockets,” says Angel Dust, touching his face. A string of cum forms between cheek and digit, causing him to chuckle. “I knew you was loaded but didn’t know you was _loaded.”_

You’re admittedly astonished with just how much you. . . produced. But perhaps it was a “benefit” of being a demon. Technically you were, after all. Just not an abomination. You’re also concerned, if that’s the right word. Concerned because your shaft hasn’t softened, and the usual post-orgasm sensitivity isn’t there.

“But seriously,” continues Angel Dust. “Fuck me, pockets.”

He pulls free another handkerchief, wiping his visage free of sticky white essence. Pity. You kind of liked seeing him mussed by, well, _you._ In the meantime, a semblance of common sense has returned to you, your mind briefly cleared. Something about being Anon and a Master Thief with goals and dreams and whatever.

“Hah,” you chuckle weakly. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

Angel Dust isn’t convinced. “Really? Your dick disagrees.”

Yeah, the erection’s not going anywhere. And neither is Angel Dust, who takes it upon himself to sit in your lap. Lithe as he is, you can still feel the split of his rump, perky enough it cushions your inches – not like you needed much more tempting.

“You wouldn’t deny poor Angie-wangie the dirty dick, now would’ ya?” he says, kissing your forehead. You embrace him for the first time, letting your greedy hands get a touch of the expensive fabric hugging his effeminate frame. His intoxicating perfume wafts over you again and it’s enough to get you _wanting_ once more.

“Only if you agree to never say that again,” you say.

“I ain’t makin’ any promises,” he chides.

“You can always shut me up,” he goes on, twirling a finger in your hair before lying back on the expansive cab seat. You suppose you could do a lot of things, but the invitation is clear. He’s like a bank vault ready to burst, with all the locks picked apart. All you gotta’ do is _take._

You position yourself more comfortably, pulling down tethers to give you a more accessible edge. Angel Dust, in the meantime, lets digits slide to hips as he pulls down a set of black, impractically thin panties. They anchor him by the ankles, like shackles, keeping him place, until you’re looming over him. You can see he’s quite hard too, his own member a little spigot of excited presex.

“M’glad you and the cock came to an agreement,” he says, turning and pushing his rump into view. He’s not excessive by any means, but his rump is perky and enticing enough. Not like you’re judging him, at any rate.

“So am I,” you say, taking the hint. You clasp his hips, procuring a gentle moan from him as he’s pushed into the door, spare hands on glass. Your loins, however, find their mark, and cock-tip presses against his pink ring you so desperately want to be inside.

You’re not waiting any longer. You were almost cleaved in twain by a randy bunch of gangsters and now your money was going to a delicate harlot of Hell. You were getting your money’s worth!

Your slippery length presses into the awaiting tunnel, forcing a whimpering, pleased moan from your counterpart. You grab his extra arms as you begin a piston stroke, a powerful rhythm of strikes, bouncing yourself into his pucker.

For once, Angel Dust is out of clever things to say.

“Hnnfuck! Mmbabethat’sgood!” is about all he manages, clashing with your own burning groans.

You lean now, requiring proximity. His tunnel is so painfully good, so appropriately tight, coaxing and suckling you as you slam into him like a relentless battering ram. You press yourself close, chest to back, bills wiggling free from your coat pockets, letting arm roll under him as you grip him close. He seems to like that, letting devilish fingers fool with your own, fogging the window with his panting, his shaft twitching uncontrollably.

“Like it?” you grunt into his. . . well, not ear, but head.

“Don’t stop,” he says, tone high and pleading. “Dooon’t fucking stop!”

You’ve no intention of doing so. In the meanwhile, certainly you are Anon: Master Thief! You take and steal and pillage, that is your art. But even a thief can’t be greedy _here._ So, your palm leaves the embrace of Angel Dust’s fingers and slips to his cock, grabbing _his_ inches and supply your own careful, thoughtful strokes. This causes him to shiver and buckle in wild approval, an unexpected token of generosity.

You think of calling him something dirty, like spider-slut, but frankly you’ll leave the clever quips to him. You’re too busy fucking the drugs out of him, anyway.

Dewdrops of presex dribble into your palm, coating Angel’s own length with his arousal. It makes it easier to please his smooth inches, as you maintain a momentum of rhythmic humps. The back of the cab explodes with the sounds of your coupling, a perverse orchestra of intertwining cries. Were it not for the loud ambiance of the city, anyone could hear you. No doubt your driver is more than aware of what’s going on.

“Nff, letme, letme, I need it,” mumbles Angel Dust. At first, you’re not sure what he means. But he shifts, pushing you to back, promptly changing position.

Now, you see his suited back, his head arced in ecstasy, hot and flushed as he proceeds to ride you with a series of furious hops and bounces. Each strike of hips to loins causes a clap of flesh, like a voyeur’s applause, his tight ring spread wide as it accepts you with each stroke. You’re practically nuzzling his prostate with your tip, and you grapple his hips, hoping to force a stronger hump with each of his feverish descents.

Oh fucking fuck you didn’t think it was possible to get even more aroused, but you were proven so, so wrong. Your fleshy pillar spikes with blissful heat, ready for release, and you’d like nothing more than to empty your vaults and dump every drop of essence into this goddamn spider. So you do.

“S-shit!”

Angel Dust is the first to blow, however. His cock quivers, trembling to life as a spire of white explodes from his tip, dousing the cab ceiling in sticky seed. It splatters you too, dribbling onto your exposed legs. And somehow, the idea you’ve sent this inelegant demon to climax just makes it so much more satisfying. You hilt yourself, holding his thighs as you fuck yourself into his anal tunnel, punishing his pucker as you thrust upward.

He meets your bounces, and then your next orgasm, as you shudder, a trembling, explosive peak bursting from your bellend. You deluge his hidden tunnel, drown him from the inside, hearing him wriggle and moan from your attentions as you lock him in place, holding on, forcing him to accept your demon seed.

“Oh my fuck,” you manage to say. You don’t really have anything clever to add – your mind is a buzzing, hot mess of lustful stew. All you know is the back of the cap is a sloppy crime-scene of fornication.

Angel Dust leans, gathering himself, taking a few breaths to collect himself. He then lies on your chest, hand caressing your face.

“Sheesh, you’re a fuckin’ volcano,” he says. “Think I feel that one all the way up here. . .”

He pats – where you presume – his stomach is. You’re admittedly surprised too, but perhaps this is a characteristic of the afterlife. Lots and lots of _you_ to go around.

“You’re a real steal, you know that?” you say. Angel Dust _slowly_ pulls himself from you, a downpour of white seed flowing from his ring. He snickers.

“Guess that’s my tip,” he says, retrieving his panties and pulling them back on. “And I don’t get stolen, babe, just paid.”

Ah, yes, that. You mimic him, getting your suit attire back on, trying to look like you didn’t just fuck a spider harlot from hell. You proceed to shuffle in your inner pockets, feeling for your stacks of bills. You’re stopped though, Angel Dust’s hand coming over your own.

“Whoa, easy, pockets. Wasn’t trying to hassle ya. Still gotta’ get you to my digs, remember?”

He looks around, noting the utter mess you two made. “’Sides, you might wanna’ save it for the cleaning bill.”

You chuckle. For once, you actually feel safer. For once, you feel like your plans for grand thieving conquests are once again in reach, despite the setbacks.

Angel Dust, in the meantime, slides next to you, much like before, comforting you with his multiple, caressing arms. You’re not bothered by it this time.

After a while, the cab finally slows, reaching its stop. Perhaps the driver recognized Angel Dust and knew where to go? Regardless, Angel Dust slides open the door, stepping out, hand extended. Behind him, there’s a massive building of ornate scarlet – grandiose in spectacular fashion. It is absolutely _not_ subtle and probably not where a thief should hide if they’re trying to avoid attention. But you see that spider’s mischievous smile and think, perhaps, it’s not so bad.

“Welcome to the Hazbin Hotel, Anon,” he says. You step out with him, rubbing your head.

He takes you by the arm, reminding you to pay the driver. Much like Angel Dust, you’ve a feeling there’s more to this hotel than it seems.

Jackpot.


	2. Easy Cash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After your "encounter" with Angel Dust, you've decided the Hotel will make a nice hideout. Angel Dust has other ideas to get you comfortable, however.

**Easy Cash**

A luxurious building looms over you, an assault of ornate scarlet and regal lights promising one thing to all who enter: redemption. Because yes, in the darkest bowels of Hell, even demons seek penance. At least, that’s the idea. Crowning its frame in bright, vivid pink neon are two words:  _Happy_ _Hotel_. This is your new hiding place. But it may indeed become your new home.

Because you’ve got plans for this city.

And by what profane miracle did you end up at its doorstep? Well, a little “angel” lead you down the road of promise. Angel Dust, specifically. A foul mouthed, elegantly dressed spider demon who just so happened to coax you out of your pants with some of the best sex you’ve had in the afterlife. Well, really, it was probably the only sex. But fuck, it was  _good._ Good enough that you don’t mind you’re down on your luck again in the bills department, good enough that said bills are going straight into Angel Dust’s improvised fluff “cleavage.”

Besides, you won’t be short changed for too long. You’re a master thief. Well, you were, when you were alive. But the skill stuck, even if your soul is now a shredded partition of its former glory. You knocked over a gang’s hideout easily enough, how hard could the rest of Hell be? It was  _littered_ with all sorts of shady dives and greasy stops, prime targets for quick dosh. It’d get you by, until you planned bigger scores and greater heists. All the eyes of the underworld would know your deeds soon enough. . .

“See, what I tell ya’. Fancy digs, right?”

Your attention is pulled again by the effeminate Angel Dust. He’s got you by the arm, kinky boots clicking along as he leads you to the entrance.

“Fancy isn’t really good for hiding,” you say. You’re trying to kill the heat, after all. The Gadzooks Gang are no doubt hounding the streets to find you.

“Ey, don’t worry about it. It’s exclusive, remember? Real tight joint, ain’t nobody gonna’ bother you here. And if they do, we’ll give em’ the ol one-two-fuck-you,” says Angel Dust, his free hand patting your shoulder.

“If I keep paying you, that is,” you say. You’re admittedly keener on the spider than you’d like, but you know he’s not doing this out of some altruistic need. It’s money. It’s always money. Not that you blame him.

He chuckles. “Like I said, it don’t hurt.” He continues leading you in, pushing the doors wide open as you enter.

“We’ll square the deets of my ‘payment’ in a bit, sugar daddy. But first, ya’ gonna’ have to make nice with everyone else.”

Everyone else? Oh, right. It’s a hotel. So you assume it’s filled to the brim with an entourage of unsightly horrors and demonic fiends. But as you pass the door, senses overwhelmed with a pleasant, ritzy interior, you’re surprised. Not by legions of unfamiliar faces, but by. . . emptiness. There’s not really a crowd to speak of. In fact, there’s  _no one_ to speak of.

“Huh,” you say. You’re kind of disappointed.

Angel Dust leaves you, waltzing forward, arms gesturing wide. “Ahhh, home again. Good place yeah?”

Despite its barren floor, you’re given a moment to take in your surroundings. And yes, it is quite luxurious. Reminds you of something – a memory from your previous life you can’t quite grasp. It’s ornate and grandiose with fancy artwork adorning its walls, accompanied by furnishings of the most beautiful craft. It’s odd, somewhat out of place. The rest of Hell, or what you’ve seen, has been an orgasm of neon and futuristic city pillars. This hotel looks like it came from a different timeline.

“Doesn’t exactly scream subtle,” you add. “Where is everyone?”

“Remember when I said it’s all exclusive-like, toots?” said Angel Dust. “Well you’re looking at him. Primo-number-one. As in, guest one. And ya’ just might be guest two.”

You’re surprised. It’s a hotel, but with  _one_ patron? What kind of shambling operation was this?

“You’re the  _only_ one here?” you say.

He laughs. “Of course not, smart guy. Just the most important resident. You’ll have to-”

Before he finished his sentence, a tumble of sounds caught your attention. Footsteps. Apprehensive, you kept your hand close to pocket, only realizing – shit, you didn’t have a weapon. Add that to the list of things needed for a heist. . .

A silhouette appeared in the hotel foyer. You were expecting a monstrous thing, another nefarious abomination fit with multiple claws or some means to separate your head from your torso. But as with the hotel, you were surprised.

“Angel Dust?” she said. Yes, she, and her voice was pleasant. For the standards of the underworld, anyway.

Angel Dust rolled his eyes, waving. “Ah great, here comes this bundle o’ peaches.”

“It’s you! Where  _have you been!?”_

A petite, grey skinned, long haired demonette appeared at hotel side, one with characteristics alarmingly human. In fact, without her pale complexion, she could’ve easily passed herself off as a living mortal. One piercing eye scanned over Angel Dust with vicious scrutiny, the other hidden by white bangs – and an eyepatch.

“Hey, hey, easy,” Angel Dust said, raising up his hands. “Was just out for a little town stroll, ya’ know, turnin’ tricks, dat sort of thing. Back off the leash, would ya’?”

This newcomer marched up to him, glaring. She prodded his fluffy chest, fangs bared.

“You were gone for  _twelve fucking hours!”_ she said, fist clenched. “Shit, we half expected to see you blowing up another side of town on the television!”

Angel Dust smirked. “Naw, it ain’t like that. Course’ that’s not a half-bad idea.”

“Don’t get funny with me!” said the demonette.

“Why not? You oughta’ lighten up and laugh sometimes, pull the stick out of your snatch.”

She hissed. “You fucking. . .”

“Easy, sister, I’m just busting your. . . uh, gash. I was a good boy, I promise. Well. . .”

Now, finally, Angel Dust’s eyes return to you. “Mostly.”

As his gaze goes to you, so does the newcomer. You feel uneasy, a quake of anxiety gripping your chest. The girl might’ve looked small, but her furious demeanor was unsettling. You were beginning to wonder if you’d walked into a trap.

When she spies you, her expression shifted, eye going wide.

“Wha. . . Angel, who is this?  _Who did you bring?”_

Uh oh.

“I swear if it’s one of your fucking gang buddies I’ll strangle you with your own arms,” she says, rubbing her temples.

You consider saying something, but Angel Dust starts for you.

“He’s a buddy, all right. But not a palooka. In fact, he’s rippin’ em off! Hah! He hit the Gadzooks, ya’ hear about that? What an ace, this one, stickin’ it to those fuckfaces.”

This didn’t appear to placate the girl at  _all._

“And you helped him, didn’t you?” she said, tone accusing.

Angel Dust laughed. “Oh, I helped him, all right. Helped him right out of his pants.”

Ugh. You groaned internally. Not only did Angel Dust just blow your cover to someone you didn’t know, but he was putting you in danger. God dammit! That’s what you get for going balls deep in an effeminate spider boy.

The girl appeared to mutter something in a different language. Swears. Probably swears.

“Don’t be so judgy, he’s a good boy. He’s just lookin’ for a place to stay and you know, get all redeemed and whatnot. Ain’t that what you’re here for?”

She glanced between you and Angel Dust.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Aww come onnnn, look at em’!” Angel Dust said, gesturing in your direction. “You’d like em’ if you got to know em’ as  _intimately_ as me.”

She shivered, crossing her arms. “You just said he  _robbed_ someone.”

Angel Dust cleared his throat, rubbing his hair fluff. “Yeah but it was all uh, noble like. He was stealin’ for the poor or something, like uh, takin’ from the bad guy to give to the  _not_ bad guy.”

You blinked. He was lying for you. Even though it was a terrible lie – everyone in Hell was bad. Angel Dust, in the meantime, waved to you, gesturing for you to come over.

“Come on, come on, give em’ a chance. Anon, say hello to Vaggie, our local hotel bitch!”

She growled, striking him in the arm. You grimaced, looking back to the door. You could always run. . . but where the hell would you go? More Hell? Ah, damn. It was this or nothing. Stepping forward, you adjusted your tie, attempting to put on a pleasant persona.

“Ah, hello,” you said in as calm a tone as possible. “Yes, uh, sorry for the trouble. I’m Anon, and uh, your friend here got me out of a pinch. And I’m looking for a place to stay.”

Angel Dust rubbed his arm, sticking his tongue out at Vaggie.

“I hope it’s not too much trouble,” you continue, extending a hand.

Vaggie gives you a steady, uncertain look. Her eye trace over you from head to foot, crossing arms. You can’t tell if she doesn’t trust  _you,_ or Angel Dust.

Eventually, though, her hand extends, taking yours. “Hmm.”

Angel Dust beams. “See? I wasn’t lyin’, stand up guy.”

You note her grip is firm, in a threatening way. Uncertainty of guests? Wonderful, just what you need when you want to beat the heat.

“Robbing for the poor, is it?” she says, giving you a most doubtful look. You glance to Angel Dust, who nods feverishly, tossing a thumbs up.

“Yes, it’s uh. A pet project. I believe. . .”

You trail off, trying to find the words. Play it cool. First impressions were important. This could be a solid dive to hold for a long while and  _plan,_ if you played your cards right.

“I believe in giving second chances and redemption. Even in Hell. Sometimes, you have to knock over a few gangs to get there.”

You say the latter part with a bit more malign than intended. However, your words seem effective, at least to a degree. Vaggie’s expression softens.

“Redemption, huh?”

Unseen to her, Angel Dust smirks like he’s pulled the greatest con since this side of rolling Fort Knox. You hide your amusement. However, as Vaggie seems to at least  _accept_ your presence, another pair of footsteps is heard, rounding the foyer. They’re delicate, holding a dancer’s grace.

“Oh, is he back finally?”

It’s another feminine voice, but far softer than Vaggie’s. It’s almost angelic, bearing a kindness. You’re not even sure it’s real until the figure it’s attached to appears. She, like Vaggie, is another lady, but with a far more pleasant demeanor. Her flesh is snowy in complexion, white as death, bequeathed with a marvelous smile and wide eyes. Long, blonde hair flows to her waist like a river of gold and a formal, red suit accents her frame.

“Oh, Charlie, uh. . .” Vaggie looks back as the newcomer approaches. The girl sees Angel Dust, and then you.

“Uh! Oh! A guest?” she says, hands clasped together, hopeful.

Angel Dust gestures to her. “Aaand here’s our little screaming ball of sunshine.”

‘Charlie,’ as it were, adjusts her suit, maintaining her smile. “Phew.”

“I was getting worried. You’re not usually gone that long,” she says, wagging a finger at Angel Dust.

“Lucky we didn’t find him dead,” added Vaggie. Charlie nudged her friend, tossing a disapproving look. Now, however, her gaze comes to you.

“And you brought. . . a friend?”

Angel Slides next to you, arm around your shoulder. “Oh sure, a real Robin Hood. Swell fella’, just lookin’ for a hideout. I mean uh, a safe digs, yeah.”

You nod. Vaggie scoffed.

“He robbed a gang.”

Angel Dust grumbled. “Eyy, it was for the people, or somethin’. You’re always goin’ on about that, right? Helpin’ the little schmuck out. Anon wants to be a goody two shoes, get redeemed. Or whatever.”

For Charlie, once the word ‘redeemed’ slipped past Angel Dust, she was hooked. She positively exploded with a gleeful smile, and for a moment, you thought she was about to sing. Something about her was familiar too. You’d seen the face before, somewhere. But where?

“Really?” she said, giving you an optimistic look.

You nod again, smiling. “Yes.”

A lie. A dark, blood covered lie. No part of you had  _any_ intention of abandoning your path. But they didn’t need to know that. Nobody did.

“I’m so thrilled!” continued Charlie. “This is amazing! Oh, I know the hotel would start catching on. Angel, great work! This was so kind of you, really!”

Angel Dust shrugs. “Whadn’t nothin’.”

Charlie’s hand extends. “Anon, was it? Marvelous to meet you!”

You take it and shake. Her grip is soft and pleasant. Alarmingly so. This might’ve been the first demon in Hell you encountered which didn’t want to outright cleave you in half.

“I’m Charlie, Charlie Magne,” she added.

You blink. Magne.  _Magne._ Where did you. . .

Oh, Christ among the dead. Charlotte Magne. The Princess of Hell. Lucifer’s daughter.

You hide your shock, terror, and awe. At least, you hope you do.

“It’s wonderful to meet you,” you say, throat almost catching.

A hundred questions run through your mind. Why was the daughter of Hell  _here,_ in a hotel, trying to help the damned? Wasn’t that contradictory to the point of Satan’s domain? Just as well, what happened to those who displeased her? Charming and lovely as she appeared, you could sense the dread power lurking within her, the seed of the underworld yet to sprout.

Angel Dust had lured you to the lion’s den. Dammit. Your profession just got a lot harder.

“The pleasure is  _mine,”_ she says, bubbling over with excitement. “Welcome! Welcome to the Happy Hotel!”

Her arms spread in a wide, theatrical gesture. Angel Dust hides a snicker.

-*-

Your new company proceeded to introduce you to the various corridors and accessories of the hotel. It was indeed spacious, fit with everything a forlorn soul in the depths of Hell might need for comfort. There was an exquisite showroom accompanied by elaborate bar, a massive dining hall, places for swimming, card games, and much more. Of course, numerous rooms littered its various floors, no doubt expecting a wide host of guests from every corner of Pentagram City.

For now, they were quite vacant.

As Charlie lead you along, you eventually came to what would be your quarters. It was generous in size, an elaborate space with rich carpet, fineries, statues, and paintings.

“It’s incredible,” you say. And you mean it. This was far better than anything you expected. Of course, another thought creeps into your head.

“What uh. . . does it cost?”

This perplexes Charlie. She tilts her head, hands together. “What? Oh, well, nothing. You’re our guest, a broken soul looking for redemption. This is a place of healing, not debt.”

She smiles. You’re taken aback – this was coming from the daughter of the Devil, after all.

“Really now?” you say, in disbelief. She nods.

“Of course, Anon. I want to rehabilitate my people, not exploit them.”

Ah, what a precious thing, and a sweet notion. It’s a shame you have utterly no desire to better yourself.

“Please, make yourself at home here. We’re at your service.”

You thank her, but not for the reasons she believes. As Charlie concludes her introductions, she allows you time to settle in.

“You should join us for dinner. I know it’s sudden, but we want our guests to feel welcome!”

Charlie makes certain you’re comfortable, and you most assuredly are. You don’t have much luggage to speak of, at any rate. At least, not  _yet._ In the meantime, she indicates supper is ready in a few hours, giving you more than enough time to adjust.

When she leaves, you’re left to your devices. You rub your head – the slight scuff you suffered before having healed over, and you don’t need to worry about any errant gang members creeping up to give you an unwelcome greeting. You shuffle with your inner pockets, pulling free several wads of ill-gotten bills, setting them on a dresser table.

Hmm. It’s hardly a king’s ransom. Far less than what you previously had. But it was something, and a reminder to be  _better._ You could’ve planned a more efficient escape, checked the streets, covered your tracks. Not to mention, the lack of a committed crew mangled your capabilities. If you wanted to knock over bigger marks, you were going to need help.

You take some time to clean yourself, bathing off the muck of the day. Conveniently, there’s an array of form-fitting suits for you, like the hotel itself sensed your need. Too bad it didn’t come with rows of guns and explosive devices.

You’re not left alone for long, though. As you finish drying off, a knock raps at your door. Before you have a chance to oblige it, it swings open. A bedazzling figure sweeps in, glass in hand, wearing a mischievous sneer. Angel Dust.

“Ey, there he is, my favorite sugar daddy,” says the spider, sauntering in and kicking the door shut. “You ran off and I was gettin’ lonely.”

Somehow, you doubted that.

“It’s polite to wait for the door to open, you know,” you say. He takes a sip of his drink, and you get the sneaking suspicion it’s alcohol.

“Do I look polite to you?” he says, looking around. His gaze gives you once over, and he tosses a purr. “Nice suit.”

“Thanks,” you say. You go to your dresser, grabbing one of your stacks of dosh. Admittedly, it’s more generous than what you had in mind, but something about this elegant arachnid puts you in a tizzy.

“This,” you continue, holding up the healthy stack of demonic denars, “Is for you.”

Angel Dust’s expression flashes with enthuse, like a kid in a drug store. His cheeks notably flush, and one of his prim, gloved hands comes to retrieve the payment.

“Oh  _baby_ ,” he says, visibly salivating. His extra digits flip through the bills, each fold sending him into a monetary induced orgasm.

“This is a pretty fat wad, pockets. You tryin’ to sweep me off my feet?”

You play it cool. “I did owe you.”

Angel Dust finishes his drink, setting it aside, rolling the bills together like an expensive cigar.

“Owed, with a generous tip. Dis’ some kind of metaphor for your dick?”

You chuckle. “Maybe. But, I am here, thanks to you. And you didn’t have to lie for me.”

He waves his hand. “Feh, if I had said you was a criminal I’d never hear the end of the bitching.”

You assumed he meant Vaggie. “Still. Consider it my thanks,” you say.

“Hope you plan on thankin’ me a lot more.”

Angel Dust – again – shuffled the rolled dollars into his improvised cleavage, giving it a snug home.

“Maybe. . .” you say, looking at your remaining loot. You go to the dresser, tapping the furniture, musing.

“Only possible if I can keep doing what I do best.”

Angel Dust proceeds to waltz over to your bed, sitting on its edge. He leans into it, propped up by his extra arms, giving you an intrigued gaze.

“What you do best has me interested, pockets.”

You glance back at him. “That so?”

“I’m into violent guys,” he says, “Well, when they pay me.”

“Violent? That’s a bit of an assumption, isn’t it?”

He laughs. “Oh toots, come on, nobody rips off a gang around these parts all squeaky clean. Something tells me you ain’t exactly soft on the trigger finger.”

You were only acting coy, of course. Certainly, you were a thief, but your line of work was rather. . . aggressive. Demons in the depths of Pentagram City weren’t the bargaining sort, either. If a few of them had to die, it was just an occupational hazard.

Angel Dust seems to read your mind. “I’m not wroooong,” he says in sing-song tone. Ah, well, not like you could hide your intentions from him. Only a while ago you two were all hot-and-bothered. This whore spider was the closest thing to a friend you had right now – sad as that was.

“No, I suppose you’re not.”

“Adda boy.”

You turn to him. “Why does that matter?”

He gave a playful shrug. “Maybe I like ya’ that way. Maybe I like gettin’ easy money. It’s pretty boring around here, ya’ know. Having to go clean ain’t so simple, I can’t even blow up a few building blocks without getting screeched at for it.”

Ah, yes. Per your introduction, Charlie explained the Hotel was more than just a home for the forlorn. It was for redemption, an impromptu rehab clinic. Why one would try to save the souls of Hell’s denizens perplexed you, but it wasn’t your concern. Robbing the vaults of the underworld? More your speed. But it meant that Angel Dust wasn’t here for show. Despite his forwardness and dripping sexual aggression, he was trying to better himself. Or, so it appeared. But it meant his previous antics – whatever it entailed – were things of the past.

“But you? Farthest thing from borin’, babe.” He tosses a finger-gun at you. “Let’s keep it that way.”

You tilt your head. “You sound like you’re trying to help me.”

Angel Dust put a hand over his lips, snickering. “Did I say that?”

He stood, kinky boots clicking against the floor. “Ya’ wanna’ see something?”

You’re not sure if you should oblige him. What, was he about to flash you? Then again, what’s the worst that could happen? Aside from anything and everything, that is. You were in _Hell._

“All right,” you say.

Angel Dust gestures with a finger for you to follow, so you do. You both leave your quarters and down the luxurious hallway, the myriad of fearsome paintings staring you down, as if in judgment. After a brief stroll, you reach another door, this one quite tall in comparison to yours. You realize its Angel’s room. You hesitate. Oh god, he wasn’t about to lure you into some labyrinth sex dungeon, was he?

He presses the frame open, entering. The gentle scent of attractive perfumes washes over you, and despite all common sense and good judgment, you follow.

Sex dungeon it was not. Instead, you’re encompassed by a luxurious room fitting for someone as  _gauche_ as Angel Dust, accompanied by pink. Lots of pink. Pink pillows, curtains, fineries, even bedding. There’s an elaborate dresser table with an immaculate mirror, surrounded by an entourage of makeup and ritzy aromas. Fat, bulky dressers are bloated with a delectable inventory of dresses, suits, and lingerie. There’s a record player in the corner and a table for drinks, lined with glasses, whiskey, scotch, bourbon, vodka, and Satan knew what else. One table on the foot of his  _massive_ bed holds a gold tray, where you spy an empty baggy with sprinkles of white scattered along it.

None of these things are the object of his interest, however. He prances over to one more dresser, a massive black oak furnishing with a menacing lock in front of it. You’re a little distracted by his collection of demon stuffed unicorns populating his bed.

“You packin’ heat these days, handsome?” says Angel Dust, unlocking the fixture without looking at you.

At first, you think he’s making some kind of innuendo. Then you realize it’s a genuine question. And no, no you are not. You had a couple of improvised explosives specially made for the Gadzooks, but nothing beyond that.

“Well. . .” you start. He doesn’t let you finish.

“Didn’t think so.”

There’s a loud, mechanical click and the doors to the furnishing swing open. Inside is not an entourage of drugs. It’s not a bedazzling peacock suit or elaborate dress.

It’s weapons.

You almost don’t believe it. In fact, you  _can’t_ believe it, not until Angel Dust brings out one of them, spinning around with an All-American classic cradled in his arms.

“Dis’ is one of my babies. Say hello, schnookums,” he says, propping it up.

A regal, black steel Thompson submachinegun rests in his grasp, bequeathed with a fifty round drum magazine and engraved wooden stock. Inefficient, weighty, and a weapon  _ideal_ for a spider like this. An iconic chopper of the criminal era, something right out of the forties.

You’re admittedly entranced. You step close, getting an eyeful. Behind Angel Dust, you can see there are  _more._ Along with a family of similar submachine guns, you also spy several hand explosives, machetes, knives, knuckles, axes, and bats.

Angel Dust kisses the barrel tip, a lot like he kisses other things.

“Mwah.”

He gives you a knowing glance, aware of your envy. “Wanna’ hold it?”

Oh, he’s a spider whore after your heart. You don’t say  _no,_ so he presses it into your hands. All at once, a feeling surges back into you. You drown in memory. The sound of groaning safe doors, the scent of burning cash. The rattling of gunfire and distant screams, the screech of oncoming sirens. Holding this weapon felt so. . .  _right._

“It’s very impressive,” you say.

“Only the best. I’d roll every bum in Pentagram City with that chopper. Set a whole building on fire one time, heh.”

He starts to laugh. “Oh, you shoulda’ seen it, fuckfaces fallin’ out the window! ‘Ahh, help, my skin is melting! Ahh!’”

His chuckles continue, pantomiming a panicking demon.

“This one guy ran into the street and got smeared by a car! Ah, it was the best. . .”

You try not to picture it. “Good. . . memories I take it?”

He dawns a fond expression. “Yeah, good times. But now I’m squeaky clean and all that shit.”

You aim down the iron sights while he speaks, getting a feel for the weapon’s weight.

“Not you though,” continues Angel Dust. “You’re a  _very_ bad person, ain’t ya?”

You look at him. “Don’t sell yourself short.”

Here he embraces you from behind, one of his arms caressing the barrel of the weapon, his voice purring in your ear.

“Oh, I’d show you a fun time, toots. But I’m tryin’ the straight and honest. Means no more shoot n’ loot, you get me? But you. . .”

You feel his hands squeeze your shoulders. “I get the sneakin’ suspicion you ain’t interested in an honest life. So, whose to say I can’t pass you along some of my ah, tools?”

You blink. “You want to give me your weapons?”

A finger comes to your lips, and he faces you. “Shhh. I never said  _give_  you weapons. But I mean, if it just so happens I ‘lose’ one of my babies and it  _just so_ happens you use em’, it’s nobody’s fault, right?”

Again, you suspect he’s not suggesting this out of some altruistic desire. In the same vein, you do need weapons. And help. Even if said help is from a fanciful ex-criminal looking to go “clean.” However, you’re Anon: Master Thief. You have visions of grandeur, of elaborate heists and head-spinning schemes the likes of which would stun all of the underworld! Angel Dust didn’t fit into said schema. Angel Dust was someone you barely knew. How could you really trust him?

“You want me to steal for you,” you say, waving a hand. “Why should I?”

He catches your hand. He comes round to face you, and his eyes bear a come-hither, sultry intent. Your digits he raises to his lips, and he wraps them around the end of your index, granting it a small, suggestive suckle.

You shiver. “Ah, right.”

“Just cause’ I’m tryin’ to be a good boy don’t mean  _you_ have to be,” says Angel Dust. “Maybe I’m trying to vicariously live through ya, pockets.”

You nod, while in the meantime, handing back the Thompson. Angel grants a smirk and returns it to its resting place, while you take a moment to admire him again. Lithe he is, but curvy too, in all the right ways. Strange how plump his backside is, how adequate the curve to his hips are. Strange, but appreciated.

“Maybe you should convince me,” you say. The thing is, you’re  _already_ convinced. But he turns, and his smirk evolves to a mischievous grin, gold tooth glinting. He understands.

He returns to you, a pair of hands resting on your shoulders. The extra pair sneak low, coming to your waist, and a familiar sensation falls over your loins. A caressing squeeze, a delicate grasp – fingers coddling your hidden crotch.

“Interested in my compellin’ argument, huh?”

He glances down, fingers fiddling with the button of your suit pants. He presses himself close, nibbling your neck.

“Or do you just like seein’ me on my knees, sugar daddy?”

A rush of adrenalin and heat consumes you. “Maybe it’s both,” you say.

He grants a dark giggle, kissing you on the cheeks and lips. “I thought so.”

It doesn’t take long before Angel Dust fishes you free, pulling down the regal fabric as your shaft struggles against undergarments.

“I could use an appetizer before the main course,” says the spider, sliding to knees in practiced fashion while glancing up at you. You shudder – his all too familiar servile gaze makes you dizzy. It was hard to appreciate before, what with the escaping death and all. Now though, the same resurgence of lust and heat drives through you like an inferno, fed by the continued attentions of the addictive Angel Dust.

As before, he slides down your undergarments, and your cock springs free, outright smacking your counterpart on the face.

“Ow,” he muses, feigning agitation. “Someone’s excited.”

“Maybe a little,” you manage to say.

With all care and coaxing want, Angel Dust grips your length with his spare hands, a dual pair sliding along its inches, squeezing with the perfect amount of pressure.

“Ain’t nothin’ little about you, sugar daddy,” he shoots back, grinning up at you. Fuck. His words are a wonderful poison. Exaggerated, you’re certain, a sweet-talking venom meant to feed your ego. But it works.

Here, he takes your crown and grants it a little bess, a familiar kiss. His warm, wet lips wrap around the tip, smothering against the end as it begins to dribble with saliva and pre.

“Mwah,” he says again, chuckling. Like before, you shudder. Different now, though, are smears of glaze, indicators of his actions.

You groan as he continues to assault your shaft with kisses, strolling along its sides as his mouth applies firm, sloppy suckles. He looks up at you while he acts, an indicator of his servitude, his cheeks flushing as he procures a moan each time maw contacts your malehood.

“Fuck,” you hiss, because really, what else can you say? Your mind is boiling and it’s consumed by one thought: more.

“Mmhm,” mumbles Angel Dust, knowing. He lets his tongue slip out, lapping along your flesh, tedious strokes going from base to tip. Here, he releases your length and lets shaft slap against his visage, resting there like an impromptu table, while his tongue wriggles against your testes, only to return to your crown. You’re glistening, like a piece of marinated meat, a course Angel Dust is only too happy to partake of.

Your head arches, and your hand comes to his hair tuft, gripping. It’s all you can do to hold on, because if you don’t you feel like you’ll disappear. Angel Dust, in the meantime, has no intention of slowing down. You feel your orbs vanish in his hot, moist mouth, testes worshipped by his skilled tongue. His lips suckle each stone with precise, voracious smacks, engulfing them as they’re caressed by his pink rug.

He pops you free, taking a breath, forcing your crown into his cheeks. He smacks your flank against him, a lewd applause echoing from their impact, giggling as he does.

“Feh, forget dinner, I’ll take more of dis,” he says, rolling your end against his visage, as if basting himself with your scent.

You don’t mind being his dinner. Just so, he embraces your length with his mouth, wrapping lips around the first inches of your malehood while his hands grip your hips for support. You groan again, hot lust dripping out of you as his caressing, wet hold accepts your root, mumbling as he does.

His eyes water while he looks up at you, choking on your flank. His throat bulges, filled to the brim with your mast, though he has no intention of releasing you. While locked, his tongue coats you in another assault of licks, slithering against your prick as saliva dribbles down his maw. God, it’s good, and it takes every ounce of willpower you have to not outright fuck his throat into oblivion.

“Mrrggmf. . .”

An utterance of gagged noises escapes him as he slowly pulls free. He coughs, trails of saliva sticking between him and your crown, though this doesn’t deter him.

With renewed vigor, he engulfs your flank once again, this time with furious gusto. His head wobbles and bounces along your inches, an orchestra of groans escaping you each time he swings his features along your hot pike. Christ among the dead, how did he do it? You had fucked him already a few hours ago and now it was like the first time all over again.

As he continued to service your flesh, there’s a knock at his door. You freeze, but Angel Dust doesn’t stop.

“Hmmf?”

 _“Angel Dust?”_ a voice says. It’s Charlie.  _“Supper is ready.”_

He continues to service your length, despite the near intrusion. However, he releases you briefly, licking his lips.

“Yeah? Gimme’ a sec, would ya?”

 _“Could you tell Anon if you see them? They weren’t in their room,”_ she continued, maintaining a pleasant tone.

He rubs your inches against his lips, grinning. “Yeah? Don’t worry, I’ll find em’.”

Charlie thanks him as Angel Dust massages your glistening flesh with hand.

“Guess we oughta’ move on to the main course, eh?” he says, glancing at his elaborate bed. Time is of the essence, so you agree.

“I  _just_ got into this suit,” you say as you get the rest of your attire off. Angel Dust laughs, taking you by the wrists and pulling you into the cozy embrace of his pink blankets.

“Borrow one of mine,” he says, stripping down. He sets aside the rolled bills from before, and here, you’re able to appreciate his form. This is the first time you’ve seen him entirely bare, and it’s quite alluring.

He maintains a lithe yet hourglass frame, his chest puffed with an exaggerated fluff. Despite his disposition as a demonic spider, there’s a soft veil of fur encompassing him that’s like silk. When you touch him, it beckons for your flesh with tantalizing pleasantness, and again, you want  _more._ The pale white interspersed with pink freckles dazzles you, like a drug. Well, his name  _is_ Angel Dust.

He pulls you close, and your slippery, seething pike prods at his pucker, desperate for entry. He gives a girlish grunt as you press into him, his legs wrapping around you, daring you to continue. So you do.

His multiple limbs cling as you hilt yourself into his tight hole, a perfect grip locking you down as you start a burst of rhythmic, hungry thrusts. Each stroke of your hips forces a delicate moan from Angel Dust, ushering you to continue. Every slam of your frame emits a loud, audacious clap from the contact of flesh, a perverse applause in this theater of a thief and a whore.

He strokes your hair, nibbling your neck, moaning your name.

“A-anon!” he squeals. Didn’t take much to quiet all the mob-talk. That’s right, you think, say my name you little spider slut.

Words you never thought would ever enter your head.

You can feel his own shaft harden against your waist, twitching uncontrollably as it writhes from heat. Dewdrops of pre-dribble from his own inches, pressing you on. The fact that  _he’s_ aroused is getting  _you_ more aroused, if that were even possible.

Said arousal urges you into a driving, hungry beast. You shift, taking his ankles and forcing them to his neck, causing him to yelp in surprised – but approving – fashion. Now the little fiend is free for you to abuse, and you promptly do so, slamming yourself into his ring with unforgiving haste. His eyes roll back, neck craned, a sputtering mess of quick breaths escaping him, presex and saliva pouring from your coupling.

Oh, sweet angels of death, you’re boiling. You can’t hold yourself back anymore. You were already aroused beyond reckoning when he toyed with your cock, but observing him as a mewling mass of groaning boy – all because of you – sends you over the edge.

“FUCK!”

Because what else is there to do, but fuck? You press into him, body quivering as it explodes with a river of issue, white sticky seed drowning his pucker as you buckle and force him to hold. He’s got no quips for you, just a melody of whiny moans as he gazes down, watching you spill yourself into him, down to the last drop.

“Nnmmmm. . .” he mumbles, hand coming to shaft to stroke himself. Of course, thief you are, you aren’t  _that_ greedy. You help, your practiced palm caressing his slippery length, assisting him reach peak until an explosive of seed spurts from his tip, messing both himself and you. You don’t care though.

Panting, you release your vicegrip from his ankles, though your root remains embedded in his earth. He strokes your head, glancing down at the mess of your coupling.

“Forget the fuckin’ chopper,” he says, “Just take that thing out, eh?” A point to your crotch.

You manage a chuckle, pulling out, though it’s hard. A river of you spills from his ring, something you hope will continue for a long, long time.

He shifts, lying on his side, the curve of his rump exposed to you. “Round two?” he says.

You muster a chuckle. “We’re supposed to be getting dinner,” you say.

He shrugs. “Consider me the main course, sugar daddy.”

-*-

Somehow, you manage another series of quick romps before making it downstairs to the massive dining hall, where your caretakers provide a luxurious meal, home cooked. Angel Dust joins you, but maintains his chatty, mouthy self, like nothing happened. Sure, he sends you a knowing glance here and there, tossing in a lewd joke when he can, but no one’s suspicious.

No one even knows what you have planned. Because in your quarters, under the bed, you’ve hidden a few things. Explosives and guns and everything you need to make your mark in this city, this refuge of the damned.

-*-

There’s a liquor store on a street corner every demon in Pentagram City knows and loves. It’s got the best brew, it gets the best guests. A real who’s-who of scum and villainy. Not to mention, the traffic of cash flowing in and out of that building is ludicrous, even for such a “small time” operation. Sure, it’s no grand casino or bank vault, but if you stacked all the bills together, you’d make a hill.

One day in the slimy veins of the city, there’s an explosion. A vomit of smoke and flesh stains the air, where coins splatter about like glistening rainfall. It’s followed by gunshots, screams, and more explosions. Most of the denizens are thrown into a panic. Most don’t know what the hell is going on, save their favorite booze dive just got rolled.

Few remember seeing much, if anything. But one old codger thinks he vaguely recalls a shadow. A silhouette in a long suit, rifle in one arm, massive bag in the other, strapped to his shoulder.

A downpour of burnt bills falls over him, his shoes stained by crimson. He vanishes into the dark as quickly as he came, and before anyone knew what happened, he’s gone. One thing is certain though: the liquor store got nailed, stripped of its wealth.

That shadow was you. Because you’re Anon: Master Thief.

[And you’ve got plans for this city.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_YyFM3hkIn4)


	3. I'm Smiling, Why Aren't You?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your actions have gained the attention of Hell's gangs - and even demons need help. In the meantime, your desire for bigger scores is growing, so you and Angel Visit one of the city's biggest casinos.

**I’m Smiling, Why Aren’t You?**

A shivering ball of anxious demon sits over his desk, fingers trembling, a feigned grin stretching his blue, serpentine features. He’s lit a cigar to calm himself down, but it doesn’t help much. His eyes wander around the room, in hopes they might provide some method of escape, a solution to his unsolvable predicament. But they don’t. They mock him with silence – the doors, windows, floor. He might try for the handgun in his desk, but, it’s unlikely he’s fast enough.

He grits his teeth, anxiety turning to fear, then to anger. His bulbous yellow eyes come to a shadow, a well-dressed silhouette. A figure which has perched itself in the room’s corner, cozy on chair, waiting.

“Do you have ANY fucking idea who I am?” the demon says, clenching his clawed fist. He takes an excessive drag from the cigar.

The figure hardly moves.

“I know you’re gonna’ die.”

You watch the quivering mass of blue flinch. His breathing hastens, he puts out his cigarillo, and he licks his teeth.

“Look,” he says, raising up hands. “I’m just. . . a middle man. A  _day trader.”_

You don’t find his pleas interesting. What you  _do,_ however, is an idle safe box resting behind him, fat and weighty with wealth you intend to extract.

“I’ve got 5k on me. Cash. You can take it and walk away. Won’t say a peep, won’t even remember you.”

You move, only just so. The weapon in your hand, however, does not. It is steadfast in its goal, an ugly thing with fifty rounds of  _fuck you_ just aching to cut apart some suited schmuck like this. It’s silent, but right now, it has the loudest voice.

As for the demon. “You wouldn’t?”

Your tone adjusts, malign intent coating words. “That’s the problem.”

You are Anon: Master Thief. Once living, now dead. Another wandering soul lost in the debauchery and chaos of Hell, another nameless vagabond within the confines of Pentagram City. A city you’ve got plans for.

“Unlock the safe,” you say. The demon hesitates, his lithe tail whipping about.

“Fuck you,” he hisses. “What’s it to you,  _what’s it to you?”_

He stands, and your eyes don’t leave him. He fishes for a key, turning around, steadily unlocking the object of your interest. He waits there, holding the key, as if something might happen and provide salvation to his current predicament.

But there’s no salvation today. Just you.

The safe whines as it swings ajar, revealing the treasure within. The demon turns, arms spread. His visage has shifted from fury to fright.

“Fucking. . . so what. What now, huh? Kill me and run? Do you  _know who I fucking am? DO YOU!?”_

You didn’t know the creatures of hell could still feel terror, but this one did. Still, you don’t move.

“Do you know  _me_?” you say.

He doesn’t seem to understand. “What? No. No, I don’t! I promise! I won’t tell them! I won’t say a goddamn thing!”

You frown. “That’s the problem.”

A quick pull. Your weapon explodes in a belch of gunfire. Nine rounds burst from the muzzle of your borrowed Thompson submachine gun and send the demon into the wall. He sputters, strange hues of discolored blood geyser from his chest like roses, and he collapses, a useless clump of quiet meat. The safe wobbles open, its contents free to scavenge. You rise, a vulture, stepping over the fallen body to claim your treasure.

You start stuffing your bag full of its contents. There are stacks of healthy bills fat enough you can barely grasp them. Gems and gold and jewelry fill its metal intestines. There’s a crown too, a tiny tiara fit for. . . someone. You can only guess. A daughter in the midst of a complex crime family, maybe? An imp? Long lost heirloom of royalty? It didn’t matter.

You fill your sack with misbegotten possessions and hurry along your way. The  _Southside Splinters_ might have dabbled more in schemes and shady deals, but they were still dangerous. Not as  _forward_ as say, the  _Gadzooks Gang,_ but you wagered the Splinters had various ways of dealing with thieves. Not like it mattered today – you were sending a message. You were here. You can take from anyone. And you  _will_ be known.

You’ve got one last climax in store. The halls of peeling, aged paint is granted a new decor: your improvised explosives. With fresh material and a little help from a very particular spider, you’ve got enough munitions here to. . . well.

You’re outside the building now, swallowed up by the pornographic ambiance of Pentagram City. Even though you’re down one of the slummier streets, the pulsing rapture of demon-kind is ever audible in the distance. Pillars of black and neon rise like intrigued sentries, as you fiddle in your suit pocket for a trigger. Satisfied, you swing your loot over shoulder, making your merry way. Why, you even feel like skipping! And you just might.

So you give it a little hop. Enough that a wandering eye or two gives you an estranged glance (ignoring the gun and bag in your possession). And then you top it off with a button push.

A rapturous orgy of fire and sound cracks the air. A shuddering  _BOOM_ rattles the ground and vomits a pillar of fire into the sky – a brick hideout now reduced to rubble and stony rainfall. There are frightened curses and panicking demons everywhere, shapes dashing for safety as they try to avoid the impromptu meteors and falling meaty remains.

A beautiful pillar of fire coalesces, a signal of your deeds. Where once a proud hideout stood, where a laboratory of vagabonds schemed together – now remained charred black teeth of ruinous building.

You leave the scene – though not in haste. This is Hell, authority belongs to those with the strength or guile to wield it. Police don’t exist here, unless you counted the souls of crooked cops. The only ones who could possibly hold you responsible are the Splinters, and you’ve made it clear there’s none of them left to chase you. By the time another ensemble of them shows up to figure out what the fuck just happened, you’ll be long gone.

And gone you are. Chaos is common on the streets – no one will bother to keep track of you. Death and violence are natural commodities to Pentagram City – in fact, it’s  _routine._ The stagnation of vileness becomes so overwhelming, so intrusive to even Lucifer, they  _purge_ themselves. Factions from every corner come creeping from their dwellings to contest territory in an ugly gladiator’s bout for dominance. Or, so you’ve been told.

That means your actions are often obscured by the sheer murder committed by some of Hell’s top players. It’s a convenient way to keep a low profile. But it’s also  _inconvenient._ You are Anon! And you would force the eyes of the underworld to look at you! You would facilitate the greatest heist this god-forgotten oblivion had  _ever seen!_

But doing that when every scummy Sally and horrible Harry siphoned all the attention with their antics was difficult. Christ among the dead, you couldn’t take two steps without hearing about some cock-wild snake man getting into fights with a cyclopean tart. How would your deeds be known if they were, in fact, unknown?

As if to mock you for your relative obscurity, you pass a crowd of demons ogling a window bloated with televisions, broadcasting the latest of Hell’s news, far from the scene of your deeds. Past the masses and on the screens, you indeed see the violent commotion of one  _Sir Pentious_ and another  _Cherri Bomb_ slinging slurs amidst a report by Tom Trench _._ Both are demons with clout, power, and weapons. Lots of weapons. Enough that they level entire skyscrapers without much effort. A part of you fears them. Another part hates them. One day, you think, you may have to fight them.

The audience is enamored with them, drooling at their startling displays of unrepentant violence. Machines tumble and colorful explosions choke the sky within the broadcast, as the fight for Hell’s domain continues. You hope to see your name on the screen too, when the time comes.

You grumble but push the thoughts aside. This was no time to get mopey. You just finished a robbery – a dashingly successful one, you might add. Arrogance was your greatest foe now, even petty jealousy. Your time would come, because that’s all you had.

For now, you needed to make a mad dash for home. You lacked a wheelman, so it was the blood bathed streets for you. But perhaps that was for the better – after all, your caretakers weren’t exactly aware of your misdeeds. The  _Happy_ _Hotel_ – your improvised safehouse – was a collection of miscreants, vagabonds, and doers of the bad deed. By design, at least. Run by the daughter of the fucking  _Devil,_ its intent was to rehabilitate the lost and the damned through a variety of means, most of which entailed lots of songs and rainbows. So,  _you_ going about and stealing whatever you damn well pleased wasn’t going to sit well with the owners, assuming they discovered your antics. Which they hadn’t.

Well, except for one of them. The foul mouthed, effeminate, ex-criminal aficionada known as Angel Dust had gotten very,  _very_ familiar with you, and without his help you would likely spend the rest of your time in Hell as a gang member’s meaty hood ornament. He, for the time being, was the closest thing to a friend you had right now. And, like a good friend, mum was the word. So, despite your fiery exodus from the  _Splinters’_ hideout, you had to return like nothing bad had happened.

Returning didn’t take long, and since your time as a resident, Angel Dust had found you a little side entrance allowing you to come and go as needed. It helped, too, the hotel was quite vacant. Aside from the demonic spider, you were the only other true guest of the Hotel.

The entrance was some kind of enchantment, a casting which caused the bricks to undulate and shift at the behest of the requester. Nice and hidden, something you would’ve loved when you were alive. As you moved past the shifting mortar, you entered the wide hotel halls, a notable quiet choking the air. Lack of guests aside, there was at least a commotion  _somewhere._ Hmm, good. Maybe everyone was out?

Relieved, you were about to reach your room door, and then-

“Eyyy, sugar daddy!”

You almost  _jumped._

“FU-cking jeezus,” you say, seeing the approach of the ever-familiar fiend, Angel Dust.

You look at him. “Were you just  _standing_ around the corner?”

He’s carrying a wide grin, and a glass. Full of what you can assume is yet more alcohol. His eye – the one not discolored by black sclera – is also tinged pink. Oh, drugs, of course.

“Whaaat? Nooo. Wait, yeah. Yeah, I was! What’sittoya!?”

He jabs at you with an accusing finger. You ignore this, entering your room, tossing bag of loot onto bed, setting the Thompson aside. Angel Dust comes soon after – but you don’t mind. He’s the most welcome company in the underworld you know, sad as it is.

“It’s pretty quiet,” you say, opening the bag, disregarding his tone. “Where is everyone?”

You feel something. His chin comes to your shoulder. His breath is tinged with the scent of pricey booze, but his words are muddled and slurred.

“Eh, who cares. Gooone. Did some teevee stint, I’dunno. It got real borin’ though without you, toots.”

You shiver at his touch. It’s nice, even though he’s wasted off his ass.

“Uh huh,” you say, beginning to pull free your stolen itinerary. “And you decided to get high?”

“Oh baby,” he says with a snicker and cheek kiss. “I’m fuckin’  _flying.”_

You hear something rustle, and a plastic bag is tossed onto your bed too – empty.

“See?”

You’re not really surprised. Or judging. This is Hell, after all.

“What, didn’t save any for me?” you jest, setting aside stacks of demonic denars and jewels. Angel Dust, though, comes to your side, shooting you a most flummoxed glance.

“I’m kidding,” you say. You’re not interested. Drugs like these addle the mind and make planning impossible. You’ll save it for some grand suicide pact, or something.

“You sure?” he says, taking a sip of his drink. “I could take you on a  _ride,_ Anon.”

“You already do.”

Angel Dust blinks, quite slowly. But then grins, cheeks flushing.

“Speaking of,” you say, gesturing to the Thompson, “That worked beautifully.”

The referenced submachinegun didn’t belong to you. In fact, none of the weapons did. They were once tools of the trade used by your effeminate friend, and if rumor had it, he was a particularly nasty shot with them. You could see why.

“I told youuuuu,” he said, giving his gun a fond gaze. “Schnookums took care of ya, huh?”

You yank out more loot. “Clearly.”

Angel Dust, in the meantime, can’t help himself. One of his extra hands grazes the fat stacks of bills, audibly shuddering at its touch. His fingers flick through them, the audible applause of flipping paper a spine-chilling reward.

“Fffuuuck, gettin’ clean sucks.”

You pause. “It’s hard, I’m sure,” you say.

“You know, this would all be easier with a wingman,” you continue. “The solo act is only getting harder.”

Angel Dust blinks agaub. There’s an audible pause, and he finishes the rest of his drink. His eyes though, they waiver, flicking around your room in an uncertain pattern.

A slow headshake. “Sorry, babe. I’ve gotta’ be a good boy. I promised.”

You’re somewhat amused. Angel Dust doesn’t strike you as the type to make promises.

“To who?”

He chuckles. “Me.”

He falls onto the bed now, practically swimming in your wealth, arms spread.

“Besiiiiiides, I have enough time for all the drugs I want.”

He crosses his booted legs, watching you work. You’re admittedly disappointed. As to why, you’re not quite sure – it wasn’t like getting a crew together was impossible. Plenty of third-rate demons existed in Pentagram City who would be willing to rob for a cut. And yet, you didn’t just want  _anyone._

You glanced at Angel Dust, his frame accented by all the gauche gold, jewels, and money. Hmm.

You shrugged it off. Probably nothing.

“So, what’s this thing on the TV, now?”

-*-

“He’s makin’ us look like a  _FUCKIN JOKE!”_

Hands slammed. Wood cracked. Drinks spilled.

“How do you know it’s a guy? Could be anything. Don’t assume their gender, now.”

“Shut your  _fucking mouth_ Mel before I choke you with your own fuckin’ guts!”

An accosting point with a fat, pale digit.

“Someone’s touchy.”

“You better believe I’m bloody touchy you sorry excuse of a half bent  _prick!”_

“Gentleman, gentleman, please.”

Hands bathed in golden rings raised, calling for quiet. The mammoth figure to the hand’s left – a mountain of cheap suit and flesh – settled, but with an audible, angry grunt. The smaller one, petite and blue-scaled, just snickered.

“We didn’t come here to fight, we came for solutions.”

A trio of shadows sat together, brethren in their desire for sin. Each represented a cut of territory in the forgotten parts of Pentagram City, the ones who made the rules, because they had the power to do so. But now, that power was slipping. Because  _someone_ was causing them trouble.

“I’ve got a solution,” started the big one. “Turn every damn street into a buffet of bodies. Every street corner mounted with a head to keep this little upstart  _out._ Show that little shit he better piss off or we’ll make him an  _example.”_

The smaller demon, the blue one, chuckled.

“Morris, your solutions are always so. . . undignified. You don’t even think them out. We’re about to have a Purge. People will die. Who in Hell is going to notice a few extra entrails on the streets?”

Before Morris broke in, the voice of reason interrupted.

“It’s violent, and we all like violent, but Mel is right. This is going to take a little more precision.”

For weeks, the  _Gadzooks Gang_ and the  _Southside Splinters_ watched in hapless horror as their hideouts were robbed, ransacked, and ruined. Somebody, some impudent little shit was stealing from them, getting away scot free in the process. At first, the Gadzooks almost had him, but apparently, he skipped their pinch by sheer luck. Now, though? Courageous fucker was off on a spree, sticking his hands in their pockets like a day in candy land.

This called for an unthinkable meeting between enemies. Despite their disputes, even roaming gangs knew when a bigger problem was about. So much it dragged Macron out of his empire of retired criminality.

Morris settled, as Macron gestured to Mel. “You’ve got something for us?”

Mel adjusted his suit with a prideful smirk. “Oh, you bet. One step ahead, as  _always.”_

He gestured to the dark, where armed guards were waiting by the room’s door. Nodding, one of them clicked it open. Someone stepped through.

A shadow, short and curved, no larger than Mel’s waist, hopped in.  _Literally._ Her graceful footfalls mixed with a skipping canter, pale white fur catching the room’s dim light with ease. Her expression was pleasant, but. . . off. Incorrect. Far too broad a smile. Eyes too wide, orbs of deep, unrepentant scarlet.

Her frame rattled with the clicking, tinny song of metal, where multiple cannisters of different shapes and sizes were strapped to her by a polished assortment of belts. Each carrying something deadly and unstable. Like her.

“This. . .” Mel gestured, “Is Sarin.”

Morris stared in absolute disbelief. In front of him stood the short, stocky form of a fucking  _rabbit._ His entire arm was bigger than her!

“Hi! Hello!” she said, her tone as pleasant as a nursery song.

Macron said nothing, but Morris’ lips twisted into a frown.

“You fuckin’ with me? This a gaff to you, Mel!?”

Mel rolled his eyes. “I assure you, she’s the solution to our problem.”

Sarin put her hands to hips, wearing a proud expression. “Yep, that’s me. I solve all problems.”

Macron gave a quiet hmm, but Morris stood.

“I’ve had enough of this,” he spat. “Shoulda’ known you were wasting my time, Mel.”

Sarin raised a hand. “Oh! Hey! Don’t leave, I just got here!”

Morris growled. “Tell me what to do again and I’ll fuck your sorry cunt with every goddamn knife in my kitchen.”

Sarin blinked. Her expression didn’t change, but she froze. A strange pause formed in the room. Macron adjusted, uncomfortable, where Mel abruptly backed away, into the room’s corner.

“Oh, that’s. . . really rude,” said Sarin. She mumbled, fidgeting with her pocket. “You should apologize.”

Morris started to make for the door. “Fuck you.”

Sarin sighed. Her hand, in reflex, pulled out a small capsule of yellow. Mel cursed, covering his mouth, as Sarin quickly lobbed it directly into Morris’ face.

At once, a burst of white, sparkling miasmic fog erupted from the capsule, blinding Morris. He swore, screaming, covering his eyes, arms thrashing about in the air. Armed guards started to move, but Macron raised a hand, stopping them. Instead, they watched as the gang boss started to sputter, his mouth foaming and face bubbling. His breaths twisted into a desperate plea for air, while his eyes hissed, melting like an acidic jelly.

“Now, now, don’t be shy,” said Sarin in a joyful voice. “Take deep breaths. That’s chlorethyl sulfide, mixed in with just a  _pinch_ of holy water.”

Morris collapsed. He wanted to scream, but his lungs were boiling, turning to bloody soup. His skin crackled and wisps of smoke trailed from his evaporating flesh, form writhing and twitching.

Slowly, his massive body halted its spasming. Breathing ceased, a pool of miscolored blood forming on the floor. His face was unrecognizable.

Sarin looked over him, arms behind her back. “Hmm. Took two seconds longer than normal. I should consider a higher dose for larger subjects. . .”

Mel still had his mouth covered, while everyone else – aside from Macron – had backed away.

“I apologize, Miss Sarin,” started Macron. “Morris was always in a foul mood.”

Sarin’s wide, unblinking gaze snapped to the gang leader. Her smile didn’t fade.

“But Mel, I believe, brought you here because of your very particular talents. And we truly need a woman of science like yourself, you see.”

Her head tilted far to the side, in a direction most unnatural.

“Go on. . .”

Macron gestured to Mel. He returned to his seat, trying to disregard the Morris-stew pooling underneath his shoes.

“Well,” he started, clearing his throat. “What do you know about catching thieves?”

-*-

You, a thief of planning and sound logic, knew the natural conclusion to a successful (especially  _noisy)_ heist was to lay low. Keep cover, avoid suspicion, plan in the shadows while you converged on your next mark.

Everything about the  _Sugary Chigurh,_ then, was the precise opposite of what you had in mind. A gauche gallery of gamblers exploding in a blitz of debauchery, lights, swearing, and music made up the guts of this massive collection of sinners. Because even in Hell, the damned were easily parted with their money.

Amidst the towers of drug dens and brothels, the spiraling pillars of bright neon lights promising every conceivable pleasure to the souls lost in hell, the Sugary Chigurh was a well-known casino with its doors open to anyone, a cheap whore with spread legs. It didn’t matter if you were the lowliest scum from the deepest streets of Pentagram City: you could make it big here!

The lie even demons believed.

You had to give them credit though. Not just the Chigurh, but casinos. They were the true master thieves – and plenty legal, too. It was like a bank strolling to your front door to empty its vaults, completely approved and regulated. In Hell? Oh, so much better. And here, wins weren’t guaranteed. You were destined to lose, it was the domain of the Devil for Lucifer’s sake. But still, low lives from all over still tried their luck.

It also just happened to be the nest egg for the gangs you so tenaciously preyed on. The Gadzooks and Splinters allotted most of their accrued money and kept it pumping through the veins of Sugary Chigurh, a sort of sneaky method they used to obscure the whereabouts of their cash. It additionally served as neutral zone, a handy place where officers could collect without fear of getting rolled. Mostly.

This made it a prime target. Despite your need to stay in the shadows, you couldn’t resist, a creature tempted by greed. You were a thief, after all. What better way to show Pentagram City it was  _your_ time to be recognized then by robbing such a prolific casino?

It helped  _he_ was along for the ride.

How better to figure out the corridors of a casino than by visiting it? Figure out its weaknesses, learn where the cash flowed? You were hiding, yes, but this time in plain sight. But Angel Dust made this tricky.

At your side, his kinky boots clicked along in loyal stride as you both navigated the ritzy floors of the Sugary Chigurh’s interior. A scent of fine perfume cut through an otherwise cigar-stained air, prideful swagger all too happy to visit a den of wealth like this. Technically, he was your date.

You were conflicted. On the one hand, this provided you a degree of cover. Hiding in plain sight, as it were. Risk some cash, have a few drinks, play a machine or two. You’re just another schmuck with a lot to lose, right? And hey, you’ve got a hot hooker – nothing out of the ordinary. Except. . .

Said hooker  _was_ one of the most well-known criminals around, leaving a trail of violence, sex, and violent sex behind him. Angel Dust wasn’t subdued, either. Foul-mouthed and flamboyant – it was certainly hard to miss him, even in a place like this. As you walked, it wasn’t uncommon for an unfamiliar to wander by and make a cat call, or wave at Angel Dust in recognition.

“Who’s the square, hot stuff?” one said, in reference to you.

“Ey, where you been baby?” said another.

“Lookin’ good slut!”

“Nice panties, drag show!”

And so on.

Angel Dust engaged them, though deflected with coy flirt. All the same, at least the attention was toward  _him._ Nothing suspicious about a vagabond hanging around with an expensive hooker, right?

Still, as the two of you anchored yourself to a craps table, it felt like eyes were burning into you from every direction. You wore a smug smile, acted the cocky fool with fat pockets, getting Angel Dust to make your rolls, and yet, your back prickled. Thief’s intuition. Someone, somewhere was probably watching.

But so were you. An explosion of cries erupted over the table, a big roll lost by another better. This gave you a moment o scan for some very, very particular figures. Those in suits carrying cases of cash.

Angel Dust saw it too – or saw where your gaze was going. He leaned into your ear, pretending to kiss, but whispered instead.

“It’s in the back room, ya’ know. Second floor. Always goes that way.”

You smirked, making your own roll, tossing in an absent-minded bet.

“But where’s the  _vault?”_ you said, voice low.

“Ain’t that a little too ambitious, babe?”

You ignored this. You saw demon toughs with shiny cases shackled to their wrists, headed off to a counting room.

“What’s wrong with a little dash and grab, eh?” added Angel Dust. You and he were clearly not on the same page. Any dime-a-dozen fool could try for the simple and easy, but you had  _plans._

Your bet busted, in the meantime. You feigned a scowl, as did Angel Dust, but kept searching. Wasn’t likely the vault was above you – too heavy. Even in the underworld, you had to account for physics. But perhaps underneath?

An arm came around your shoulder, Angel Dust leaning into you.

“We’re gettin’ popular.”

In the crowds of gamblers, you noticed too. Standing guards, giving you a steady glance now and again. They noticed.

“I ain’t gettin’ an earful because of this. Come on.”

Your arachnid counterpart tugged you away from the table, into the corners of the casino. It wasn’t danger that concerned him, just a shouting match at the Hotel. You were only here, after all, because Charlie and Vaggie were off promoting the hotel’s services, or some such. If word got out he was indirectly aiding an active robber, well, you might not be so welcome anymore.

You cursed, but agreed. You had to play the part, after all. No doubt the Gadzooks and Splinters were on high alert. So, you went with him, to a series of corner booths shrouded in dim light. It was dark, gentle smoke filled the air, along with the sounds of. . . other things.

Angel Dust pulled you to a cushioned seat of faded scarlet, where you sat, his form snugging into yours.

“Ya’ know, I heard a phrase before, ‘his eyes are bigger than his stomach.’ You’re uh, fittin’ that definition a little too well, smart guy.”

You let an arm slip around his trim waist. “Don’t think I’m good enough, huh?”

He shrugged. “Eh, robberies are complicated. I prefer the quick and easy. Besides, is it really worth all the trouble?”

You looked at him. “Yes.” Then, your eyes went to the floor.

“It’s underneath,” you added. Angel Dust blinked.

“The vault. Where they’re keeping all of it. It  _has_ to be.”

He rolled his eyes. “Oh babe, ain’t what you’ve been doing working? I’m certainly not complaining.”

His spare hand roamed through your hair. You sighed. Perhaps, yes. Block by block, you could probably grind the gangs for money, taking a splurge of earnings while keeping a low profile. You’d come home with fat bags of stolen goods, Angel Dust would probably take some, get drugs, rinse and repeat. But you tried that – when you were alive.

You shook your head. “I’ve got plans for this city.”

He scoffed. “You know who else has plans? Shit-sticks like Sir Pentious. That over inflated sack of self-importance been after the city for centuries. Look how far that got him.”

You mused. Sir Pentious. Hmph.

“You sound like you’re trying to talk me out if it,” you say. “You getting fond of me,  _Angie_?”

He stuck out his tongue. “Don’t get any ideas,  _sugar daddy._ I like the money without the risk, y’see.”

A palm went to your loins.

“And  _this.”_

You  _almost_ fell into a void of lust. Almost. Even as he squeezed, you were tempted to let go. But that’s not why you were at the  _Sugary Chigurh._

“Unfortunately for us both, I have a lot of ideas.”

Angel Dust grumble. “Why can’tcha just be a good boy like me, huh?”

“Sucking dicks and doing a lot of drugs is quite a stretch.”

He kisses you. “Don’t knock it, babe.”

Ah, his lips, warm and inviting. But they’re too distracting.

“I was a small timer in life, that’s why.”

He looks at you. “Eh?”

“I was a thief. I stole, I died. But Angel. . . if I stole from the pockets of the devil,  _everyone_ would know who I was.”

He gives you a look most unconvinced. “Sheesh, you’re more dramatic than me in drag.”

You continue. “Who was on the news today?”

He frowns. “What am I, an infomercial?”

“ _Who?”_

He rubbed his temples. “What? Miss sunshine and the screeching taco?”

You shook your head. “Pentious. Cherri. People know them.”

You glance back to the casino noise. “And I want that.”

“God, if only your dick was as big as your ego.”

Maybe. Maybe he was right. What you wanted was ambitious, to say the least. But you were Anon: Master Thief, and your greed was boundless.

He sighed, caressing you still. “Look, why don’t I get me a drink and come back and suck ya’ dick, huh?”

You chuckled. “That can’t always be the solution.”

“Why the fuck not!?”

You sigh. From your pocket you retrieve a few bills, sliding it to Angel Dust, who happily takes it.

“What’s your poison?”

You shrug. “Bourbon on ice. Just don’t  _put_ anything in it.”

He smooches your forehead. “Scouts honor. But ya’ didn’t say that for me. . .”

He prances to his feet, and with a giddy wiggle, saunters off, hips swaying with an exaggerated toss. You resolve to treat him nicely when he gets back – he was helping you, after all.

Though, as you waited, contemplations of your lowly reputation flooded your mind. Bah. A dash and grab wasn’t enough. Your appetite was growing. But your means were so limited. The vault, the damn vault, it had to be below, and if it was,  _how the fuck would you get to it?_ You had no hardware capable of making that kind bust, and your improvised explosives worked for cheap wall and cheaper safes. You needed something. A machine, maybe, with enough force to crack open a gang safe – not to mention carry off large swaths of money.

But where the hell would you get that!?

You thought of the broadcast again, imagining your name spanning across for all to see like Cherri Bomb and Pentious.

. . .

Wait. Sir Pentious. Machines.  _He had machines._ And explosive! He was leveling entire city blocks with massive mech-like creations, possessing more than enough force and size to knock over any wall. That was it. That was it! If you wanted the vault, you needed to steal from Pentious.

You hid a smile, because if you did, it would stretch from ear to ear. You kept composure, even as Angel Dust returned with drinks in hands. You grabbed him, pulled him into an embrace, and kissed.

He blushed. “Nnh! Ey, relax ya’ schmuck, almost spilled your drink.”

You took your bourbon. “It’s fine,” you said, giving his rear an aggressive squeeze.

Everything was fine now.

It didn’t take long for Angel Dust to get your pants off.

-*-

“Hmm.”

Sarin stood among the refuse of a what used to a building, albeit a cheaply made one. Ah, yes, well if the Splinters invested the same money into their hideouts as much as they did transporting stolen wealth, this might not have happened.

No one survived, of course. She spied the charred remains of  _someone_ in several places, a mix of burnt flesh and suit, but whoever they were, completely unrecognizable now. Her wide, scarlet eyes scanned around, noting how far debris had fallen. A short distance, as it were. This implied the destruction of the place was caused by a series of explosives, albeit weak ones.

She knelt, cannisters of nerve poison clanging together. Torched carpet and fabric implied fire did most of the work. One big  _boom_ and the rest collapsed.

“So, mister thief, you make them yourself,” she mused. “Clever! And what did we use?”

She pawed through the wreckage, taking a handful of dirt, soot, and burnt remains. A sniff.

“Potassium nitrate, sulfur, uh huh,” she continued, walking about.

Her studious gaze scanned every silhouette and crack. She spotted the entrails of what appeared to be a wire – and it  _was._

“Copper.”

She sat, forming a smile. “Cheap explosives with a copper-based wire fuse. Probably used a basic signal for the kaboom, uh huh? Very nice, but so sloppy! How’d you get away, mister thief?”

She wiggled the dirt in her fingers. Another sniff.

“But something else. . .”

Goodness, what  _was_ that? It was quite aromatic. A burnt scent, almost ruined, but her hyper-sensitive nose could pick it up. Without all the sulfur and stench of flesh, it was almost pleasant. Was that  _perfume_?

“Huh.”

No, that couldn’t be right. A thief wearing perfume? Didn’t really fit the MO, did it? So, either a fellow who like to smell fancy, or she was dealing with a woman. But the gangs said the profile was male. Hmm.

“Have you got special company, mister thief?” she said. Her smile kept growing.

She tasted the refuse. Her demon specialty kicked in, dissecting all the ingredients of the terrain, down to the molecule.

“Hmm. A little myrrh. Lavender. Heliotropium? That’s odd. Methyl dihydrojasmonate instead of jasmine? How pricey.”

Now  _where_ did she recognize that smell from before? On the tip of her tongue – literally. Demons weren’t the kind to mask themselves with fanciful aromas, and there was something excessive about this one. Perhaps the thief liked his  _company_ fancy.

Her ears wiggled. Something clicked. She tasted another ingredient, the demonic counterpart to a flower, a completely unnecessary ingredient to perfume, one more about its “characteristic.” Like a switch, she recognized it.

“Thomisidae.”

An expensive, rare, custom brand of scent sold to a handful of clients around Pentagram City. And only  _one_  came to mind.

“Oh,” she said, starting to laugh. Her wide, unblinking eyes looked to the horizon of the city, where tall towers crowned the “adult” parts of it, most notably where excessive amounts of porn distributed itself from.

“I  _see.”_

She giggled. “That’s really  _cute,_ my thieving friend.”

In her sitting fit, she noticed one more thing. Something shiny, a metallic casing resting amidst the carcass of an unrecognizable torso of meat. A cartridge. Now, she wasn’t entirely up to snuff with the shooty guns, but she could spot a .45 ACP. A common thing around these parts.

“Cheap gunpowder, expensive perfume, and a gun. What an interesting fellow you are, mister thief.”

She looked toward the city. “I’ve got to make a special appointment!”

Across the street, a gathering of demonic vagrants was gathered, smoking shit cigarettes and leaning on their motorcycles. Sarin skipped over, expression wide and happy, much to their disgust.

“Oh! Hello! Hi! Would one of you kind gentleman give me a ride further into the city? I’m in a rush, you see.”

One of them sneered, the others laughing.

“Sure, cunt, I’ll give you a ride you ain’t ever gonna’ forget.”

She blinked, and her smile did not fade. “Oh. . . that’s so rude.”

A flash. A cloud of smoke. Coughing figures. Spasming frames. Flesh boiling and melting from the bone. Sarin clicked her tongue, skipping away.

“I’m sorry, I’ll have to find someone else! You guys aren’t very polite.”

Sarin hummed, hopping away. The bodies she left bloated and split open in a fog of miasmatic poison.

_[See you soon, Phencyclidine.](https://youtu.be/dZhhdnegHSA) _


	4. Stacked Deck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No great plan comes together on its own. With a target in mind, you've hired to help to "acquire" the right equipment. In the meanwhile, you've gone with the Hotel denizens to one of Angel's shows, where you learn a few new things.

**Stacked Deck**

_Just like old times._

Spade liked the wheel. Felt right. When was the last time he got to play driver? When he was alive? Yeah, probably, back in the good days, the robbing days. Back when banks were as loose as a cheap street whore and your name commanded respect. Nobody was untouchable – anything was up for grabs. Now? Good fuckin’ luck. You’d be hard pressed just to mug a guy for a zip of shitty crack or hope the vagabond you had at knife point was worth more than the horns on his head. Because in Pentagram City, you were a nobody.

The gangs kept a hard knuckle on profit, too. Nobody got above them, not if they could help it. Every major demon had their territory carefully carved up, and if things got messy, well. . . purge time. So how was a two-bit robber supposed to get back in the game? How could you be a career criminal when  _everyone_ else was?

Well, somebody figured it out.

The fat van hauled ass through downtown Pentagram City, making its way to a very specific target. Spade was on the wheel, familiarity setting in, adrenaline of past experiences spiking through him like a wicked cocktail. Clubs, one of the gunners, sat next to him, while Ace and Queen were in the back, prepping their weapons. It was gonna’ be a good damn day – an easy hit with an easier take. Spade could feel it.

“What kinda’ fucknut is dumb enough to get his dick wedged in all this?”

Clubs was nursing his Benelli like a child, eyes peeping through van window, scanning for trouble. There was none, of course,  _they_ were the trouble.

“You getting cold feet on us?” piped up Queen, strapping up a thin layer of specialty-demon Kevlar. Clubs said nothing.

“My kinda fucknut,” said Spade. “Kinda’ guy who sees an opportunity and takes it. Like somebody who  _robs_ banks.”

“Don’t start with that shit,” Clubs barked. “We all did our piece, same as you  _old man._ But I’m just sayin’, some nobody wants to start picking fights with Pentious?”

“He’s sitting it out, don’t forget,” Ace said. Clubs grumbled.

“Yeah, what the fuck is with  _that?”_

Spade made a quick right turn, almost splattering a few pedestrians.

“Jee-zus, you sure you boys robbed before? He sets the mark and we get paid, simple as that.”

“Puts us in hot water, you mean,” shot Ace. “All the benefit and no risk.”

“Defer to human resources,” said Queen. “Or, shut up. We have a job to do.”

“A  _job_  I can handle,” said Clubs. “But  _this_  ain’t a job. This is a turf war. Everyone knows that sack of snake shit is trying to make moves. And now we’re getting tangled into it.”

“Nobody’s getting tangled,” said Spade. “But you are getting paid if you just act like you’ve got a pair of fucking balls.”

He shook his head. Spade liked the wheel. The conversations? Not so much. This wasn’t his crew – not that he ran with regulars much. But even among thieves, there was honor and reputation. Respect was earned, clout gained. You could trust a cheap suit with a lot of moxy and heists under his belt, but when you threw a bunch of randos together? Things got dicey. Especially when the mark in question was arguably one of the biggest around – one of Sir Pentious’ warehouses. Everyone knew the conniving, slur-spitting inventor was on the cutting edge of incredible technology. They also knew he liked to keep some of his toys stored away. Of course, no one was insane enough to actually rob the damn things.

Not until now, anyway.

But Spade liked that. He liked the rumors he was hearing on the streets, about how some dime-store thug sacked a bunch of gang hideouts  _in a fucking row_ and got away scot free. About how this thug was actually a calculating son-of-a-bitch seeking bigger scores. About how he needed to pull together a crew, just like old times. Spade liked this, and he liked the wheel.

He wanted more. He was tired of rolling bums for a few dollars and blowing it at the  _Sugary Chigurh._ Tired of getting spit on by the  _Gadzooks_ or the  _Splinters,_ doing shit work for little pay. He missed the whistle of ACP rounds and stench of smoking muzzles, the aroma of stained cash and a whore’s perfume. But this guy, this shadow from nowhere, he was gonna’ change all that. Spade knew it. He had a feeling.

“Eyes up, dicks out,” said Spade. On the horizon, washed in the violent pink sky of the Underworld, was the target: a seemingly mundane set of warehouses all fenced up, save for a gauche neon lit sign reading “SIR PENTIOUS’ PRIVATE POWER STASH OF PRISTINE PARAPHENLIA.”

“I don’t see anyone. . .” said Clubs, clenching his gun. “I don’t like that.”

“That’s why we brought guns,” shot Queen.

Spade, in the meantime, kept a steady momentum. Shock and awe, that was the plan.

The job was straightforward. The contractor assembled Spade and his entourage of a few thieves for hire, and together, they would steal some of Pentious’ tech. High grade explosives, loading machines, cutting tools, that sort of thing. Spade didn’t get all the details as to why, but if he had to guess, it was to break something down, and it didn’t take a genius to imagine what a thief might want to power through. Additionally, because Pentious’ was tail deep in Cherri Bomb’s territory, the planner assumed most of his attention would be spent there. After all, who’d be insane enough to rob Pentious at a time like this?

Who indeed.

As the enclosure came into view, Spade swerved to the side, out of sight.

“Get in through the side,” he said. “We don’t leave until we come out with everything.”

“What are you, some kinda’ fuckin loyalist?” said Ace, loading his weapon, apprehension tugging his tone.

“I’m a fuckin’  _professional.”_

Clubs shot him a look. “The hell are you doing?”

Spade revved the engine and shifted gears. “My job.”

Queen laughed, tapping his wrist. “Ten minutes.”

Clubs and Ace grumbled, but left with Queen, vanishing into the dark as they dashed to the side of the facility. The fencing was brittle in some areas, enough they could find a way through (or  _make_ one). As Spade watched them go, he placed the van at the entrance front. There was a reason  _this_ particular vehicle came with some extra juice.

With a mechanical scream, the engine roared as Spade pressed on the gas, bolting towards the front. Tires squealed and smoke belched from behind as the van sped forward, an improvised missile ready to crack through the entrance. In seconds, the van jolted from one street end and straight into the tall warehouse fencing, violently bashing it open as wire and fence scraped against reinforced glass. Spade howled with adrenalin-fueled delight, crashing forward as a chorus of alarms erupted around him. Tiny little figures – the Egg Boys – scattered around in dumbfounded panic as his wheels splattered a few, while the muffled crack of wayward gunshots filled his ears.

Just like old times.

-*-

“If we live together, we should have fun together!”

That was Charlie’s excited, bubbly logic. Her infectious positivity radiated over the Happy Hotel in a siege of rainbows, songs, and frightening smiles. Normally, you’d decline, but uh, she _was the daughter of Hell._ You couldn’t turn down your benefactor, either. Just as well, everyone was invited, making this the first time you were together as a group. Charlie’s enthusiasm had waned since her television appearance, but she refused to give up hope for her project, and thus, wrangled you and everyone else into the little outing.

But with the Hotel guests, nothing about the outing was “little.”

Much to Vaggie’s protest, Angel Dust hinted he used to run a few stand-up shows before he delved into adult “acting,” and by hint, it was more a slurred drug-laced blurb. Despite his intoxicated state, Charlie thought it was a marvelous concept, so agreed. Before you and the rest of the Hotel knew it, you were booked for the evening, out in the heart of Pentagram City.

The venue was classy – or as classy as the underworld could get.  _Zeeman’s Demons,_ a classically styled nightclub featuring evening shows ranging from comedy routines to straight up watching vagrants disembowel each other on a dazzling stage. “Colorful” interpretations of classic plays were common, and musicals were raunchier than their mortal counterparts would ever have allowed for. A holiday special, you heard, had an active Krampus lookalike literally boil stage-hands alive in celebration, so, things could get. . . interesting.

“Ah, you ugly pieces of shit, I missed you all.”

And then there was Angel Dust.

You and the rest of the Hotel were seated together at a massive circular table. Charlie and Vaggie were together, the former eyeing the stage with bubbly fondness, the other casting an uncertain gaze over the effeminate arachnid. Husk – the flying demon cat – was next to you, lopsided hat covering his squinting eyes, his breath carrying the fine odor of a cheap brewery. Razzle and Dazzle, Charlie’s small, goat-demon attendants, were together, munching on a tower of blood-frosted cupcakes.

There was also another – a figure who appeared several days previous, wearing a gaudy gold-tooth grin and scarlet, pin-striped suit. He called himself Alastor. To others, the Radio Demon. You didn’t know him, or his intentions, but after giving him a once over, you decided you’d rather  _not_ know him. He was a specimen cloaked in rumors, posh enunciations, and hidden intentions, a red flag to a master thief like you.

And  _as_ for you, you sat amidst them all, formally dressed, quiet and composed. You were bathed in an amused awe. Angel Dust was smirking out at the crowd, noisome cigarette in one hand, raw bourbon in the other, fondling mic as he chastised the viewers with coquettish flair. Despite his absolute disdainful language, demons rumbled with laughter.

“I didn’t realize Angel told jokes,” you said. Husk hacked with laughter.

“Wha? He  _doesn’t._ He just gets  _blasted_  and starts ramblin’.” Husk burped, taking a quick draft of one of his drinks. He was on beer four.

“When he ain’t dressin’ like a she-he, anyway,” went on the hybrid. “He’s pretty clean tonight, haven’t even seen his dick yet.”

You look at Husk. “You sound disappointed.”

A growl. “Don’t get snippy with me you little  _runt.”_

You chuckle. “I’m not judging.”

“What are you, a Jerry now, smart guy? Shut up. Buy me another beer.”

Husk rumbled with an agitated yowl, finishing another one of his drinks. You did your best not to laugh, but giving the old curmudgeon a hard time was funny. He reminded you of the old crusts you worked with, back in life. You decided you liked Husk.

“Shh, shh!” Charlie broke in, waving a hand. “You’re missing his jokes!”

Your attention came back to the stage, where Angel Dust was swaying.

“You know when my dad was blackening my eye. . .”

You blinked.

“He’d say, ‘see you little fuck, now we don’t need an 8-ball.’ And then he’d shake my head.”

Angel Dust grinned, and the audience rattled with a chorus of guffaws. You looked around. Were you missing something?

“What’s the punchline?” you whispered.

Husk spat. “Him getting punched.”

Oh. Vaggie rubbed her eyes and Charlie looked nonplussed, while Alastor simply tilted his head to the side.

“A lot of degenerates paid to get fucked up, you know?” continued Angel, taking a long drag of his cig. “But my brotha, hah! He’d do it for free!”

More laughter.

“Birthday, it’s my birthday yeah? And he says, ‘ey, I gotta’ new pair of shoes for you!’ Yeah, I says? And he wasn’t kiddin, they  _were_ shoes, concrete shoes!”

Angel Dust leaned, covering his cackling mouth, puffy cleavage in view. Again, the audience clapped and howled with approval.

“Couple of drunks pulled me out the river, haha! They thought I was a dog at first, you know?”

Husk shook his head. “He’s getting knocked off his ass up there.”

You weren’t sure what to make of it. Granted, this was Hell, and Devil only knew what tickled the humors down here. But you were trying to understand all the same – were these memories? From when he was alive? It dawned at you, like a brick to the head, you didn’t actually  _know_ when Angel Dust passed. The longer you stayed in Hell, the more you lost the original version of yourself, and by Angel’s look the spider had been around a while.

As he went on with his “humor,” Charlie turned to face the group, shrugging with a forced smile.

“Well, uh, at least he’s making everyone  _else_ laugh!”

“He’s a regular roaring twenties!” said Alastor, amusing himself.

Husk just groaned while Raz and Daz pursued their quest for more sweets.

“He didn’t take any drugs up there, did he?” said Vaggie, glancing between Charlie and Angel. Charlie’s eyes widened with frightened realization.

“He’s always got drugs,” you say. This was one of the first things you learned about him, aside from his tireless acquisition for more dick.

Vaggie swore in her native tongue. Charlie dawned an expression of uncertainty.

“But. . .  _we’re_  having fun, right?” she said, looking to everyone.

“Everything’s fun when the show’s a disaster!” said Alastor. It was impossible to tell if he was genuine – his face was always twisted by a malign sneer.

You could tell this didn’t satisfy Charlie, and probably made her feel worse. Considering she was trying to lift her spirits, you imagined a show going bad did little for her morale. A pang of sympathy ran through you. Why? You didn’t know – you shouldn’t care. But. . . you did.

“I am,” you say with a nod. “Ever watched a car fire? It’s fun.”

Alastor chuckled. “Hohoho! That’s the spirit.”

Husk just burped, head falling on table. Even Vaggie managed a smile.

“I guess it  _could_ be worse,” she said.

Angel Dust’s slowly degrading grip on sober reality broke their attention.

“And noowww I suck dicks for money! So, who’s laughin’ now dad, eh!?”

Vaggie sighed. “God dammit.”

This time,  _you_ laugh, but for different reasons. As you do, Angel’s gaze roams over to the table, and for the briefest of seconds, his eyes meet yours. In that fraction of time, only you two exist. An exchange of knowledge, a silent passing of secrets. He knows who you are, what you intend, what you’ve done, but  _only him._ It’s thrilling.

While Angel Dust continues to debase himself with darker jokes, you check the time. Because, even here, even among “friends,” plans are in motion.Your brief outing at the  _Sugary Chigurh_ proved one thing: you lacked the supplies to hit bigger marks. Rolling hideouts was one thing – cheap gasoline made easy work of basic brickwork. But the vaults in a casino laundering wealth from various gangs and unnamed clients was locked tight, and well beyond your reach. Unless, of course, you  _acquired_ the necessary resources. Well placed munitions and a variety of cutting tools could make short work of even the hardiest barriers, but that wasn’t exactly common on the streets. Once more, your time in the Happy Hotel was for “therapy” reasons. Charlie – bless her heart – assumed you were trying to get better, when in fact, the Hotel made for fantastic cover. Because of this, hauling around expensive equipment wasn’t subtle and attracted all the wrong kind of attention. But this didn’t stop you. You were Anon: Master Thief.

If things were going well – and they should be, the crew you picked up was already “acquiring” the equipment in question. Four goons for a simple score: steal the impressive tech locked up in one of Sir Pentious’ warehouses. You had no affection for the snide snake, but you couldn’t deny the power of his technical arsenal. His machines could level entire streets with ray-guns and heaving mechanical claws, the kind of power you needed to break into something like the Sugary Chigurh. Just on a smaller level.

You so desperately wished it was you taking charge. These were  _your_ plans, after all, and the more variables you introduced the likelihood of failure increased. The goons you picked up were demons looking for a quick cash-in, hungry for work. Only  _one_ of them struck you as having some semblance of a code, where the others were only loyal to profit. Not that you blamed them, but the integrity of a thief could make or break a mark. If you could help it, it’d be you. More specifically, you and Angel Dust.

Applause and laughter brought your attention back to the stage. Right now, the effeminate arachnid was your most valuable asset – more so than the ill-gotten gains you possessed. Trust, loyalty, and reputation were the true currencies of the thief. Without those, you were just another cheap hood robbing convenience stores.

You had plans. One involved the acquisition of powerful tools. Another involved Angel Dust.

He blew a kiss.

“So nice seeing you pieces of shit again! Thank you! You’ve been  _horrible!”_

He grinned, waving his free hand to the crowd, sauntering off the stage. The lights brightened and a rumble of conversations broke out among the audience members. Food and harsher alcohol was served soon after.

“He didn’t shoot someone this time,” grumbled Husk, head wobbling. “What a rip off.”

“He’s getting better,” remarked Charlie with an approving smile. “I think.”

Vaggie sighed, relieved. “At least we don’t have to worry about him wandering off again.”

“Not quite like the shows of my heyday. . .” said Alastor.

“Well,” continued Charlie, “It shows the Hotel therapy plan works. And that’s the important thing!”

That was quite a liberal definition of therapy, but the show hadn’t ended in murder, a high bar to set for Hell. As for you, there were things to do.

“I uh, think I should check on him,” you say, standing. “He’s always got a secret stash of blow.”

Nobody asked  _how_ you knew this, or perhaps they didn’t want to. Either way, Charlie nodded.

“Good idea, Anon! But don’t stay gone too long, your food will get cold.”

You thank her, but aren’t in any rush to return. The various entrails served alongside the strange concoctions places like these came up with didn’t sit right with you. So, you dashed off, sneaking your way through crowds of various monstrosities, past the back halls leading to the prep rooms for stage actors. Nobody stopped you – probably because they didn’t care. Angel Dust had roomed up at the end of the hall, his door emblazoned with an especially elaborate star blaring his name in fanciful pride. Even here, he refuted subtlety.

You knocked. “Angel?”

You didn’t hear a response, so you pressed on. Entering, Angel Dust as at the edge of the room in front of an enormous gold-trim mirror, patting his face and applying eyeliner.

“Hey,  _hey,_ no fuckin’ fans! I don’t do backroom auto-”

He spies your frame through the reflection. “Ohahey!”

His frame spins around, arms spread. He’s a little wobbly from the drink. “Pockets! My favorite degenerate!”

You close the door behind you, locking it. You’d rather keep free of intrusions.

“This coming from you. Should I be flattered?”

He flips you off. “Shut up, bitch, and give me some love.”

You oblige, coming to him and pecking him on the cheek. The scent of exotic perfume lingers over him, along with the stench of hard bourbon. He smirks, giving you a strong kiss.

“Mwah. Cooouuuldn’t resist coming to see me, eh?”

He turns around again, returning to application of eyeliner.

“Came to check on you,” you say. “Had to make sure you weren’t murdering the staff or doing lines of coke. Or both.”

He snickers. “Baby, by now you should know I’m at  _least_  twenty percent drugs at any time of day.”

“So, nobody’s dead?”

He glances at your reflection. “Not yeeeet.”

For a moment, there’s a pause, and you watch him. He reminds you of something, like a jewel, ripe for taking. Something about him has been alluring, lately. You don’t see him as a “quick fix” to your sleeping urges. You have desires, yes, but they’re starting to escalate. Maybe it’s just the thief in you, the innate greedy beast which, above all, desired to  _possess._ Maybe you were just excited because of your plans. Or, maybe you were starting to  _like_  Angel Dust.

He notices. “Look, babe, if you wanted to stare, just see me on the pole.”

You focus. “Oh, sorry. I was thinking.”

“You do that too much.”

You don’t want to reveal anything, not yet. So, you try to map the conversation to something else.

“Can I ask you something?”

He turns his cheek, eyeing himself closely in the mirror, powdering it. “Eh?”

“Those uh, ‘jokes’ you made. . .”

He sneers. “Funny shit, right?”

You’re not so sure. “Well, I mean. They were just  _jokes,_ right? Those things didn’t actually happen, did they?”

He stops, turning around. He leans back, spare arms reclining on the table. “What? About what?”

“Well, you know, about your family. All of that.”

Here, Angel Dust dawns a perplexed expression, like you’ve asked him something absolutely nonsensical. But not for the reasons you think.

“Huh? Pft, of course they happened. That’s how jokes work, or some shit. ‘Draw from life experiences,’ that’s like, in the comedy commandments.”

He pulls a smaller mirror from the table, looking at it, picking at his teeth, massaging his gold canine. You, on the other hand, are at a loss for words.

“Angel. . .” you say, tone laced with concern. More so because of his nonchalant attitude.

“Hrnmn?” he’s hardly looking at you, more concerned with his oral hygiene.

“So, your brother tried to kill you?”

He shrugged. “Sure, all the time. Dad just hit me. His buddies though, they got their yucks in, sometimes. Roughed me up if I got too uppity or something.”

Satisfied, Angel Dust set the mirror down.

“God.” What else can you say? You’re flummoxed. The effeminate arachnid looks no more troubled describing his experiences in a matter-of-fact way. He’s not bothered by it, so why should you be?

Because, you think, he  _should_ be. But you’re in Hell, this is all par the course. There are those who’ve likelier experienced worse, or done worse.

“Away on business,” remarked Angel. “Got the next best thing though.”

He gestured to himself, adjusting his black bowtie. You managed a chuckle. Part of you wants to prod further, sift through the vault of his memories. You don’t want to believe his stories, but why would he lie? Suppose then, you want to know why. Why his own family would treat him so poorly. You weren’t an altruistic hero by any means – you were and always would be a thief. To reach your ends by any means wasn’t a concept that bothered you. Yet, the idea that people would hurt others just for the sake of it. . . even in the underworld, that concept didn’t sit well.

Or maybe you just didn’t like the idea of Angel Dust getting hit.

“You liked it, right?” said Angel Dust, grabbing your attention again.

“What’s that?”

“The  _show_ you dumb bitch. Did. You. Like. It?”

Despite the black humor, seeing Angel Dust on stage was nice. He was a natural entertainer.

“I really did,” you said. He beams.

“I’m glad you suggested it.”

He shrugged. “Everyone’s acting like they’ve got a steel cock up their ass. They need to lighten up. Especially  _you.”_

Your arms cross, feigning a frown. “Me?”

He nudges your chest with a finger. “Yeaaaah you. You’ve been such a  _mope._ All quiet and surly, locked in your room. Probably jackin’ off with a bunch of shitty socks. Whatsamatter, get tired of poor little me?”

It was true, the previous week was spent mostly alone. Gathering contacts and plans for what you had in store took time.

“Of  _course_ not,” you say. “I’ve just been. . . planning.”

He rolls his eyes. “Ah, not the casino thing again?”

“You should know by now how serious I am.”

He grumbles, other hand coming to your tie, fussing with it. “Why can’t you be serious with  _other_ things.”

“Like?”

His gaze wanders away. “Goin’ clean  _ain’t_ as bad as it sounds, you know.”

Coming from him, it’s the last thing you expected to hear. For you though, it’s not an option. Your palms go to his shoulders, squeezing there.

“Come on now, Angel. This has to be getting old.”

Beyond your motivations for grandeur and robbery, you had another. Angel Dust was transitioning from that “one hooker who sucked you off” to “a reliable friend.” He kept you supplied, he got you places, but you wanted  _more,_ always more. Preferably, you wanted him in tandem with your schemes – but the problem was the effeminate arachnid was trying to keep his nose dry.

“People know you. They respect and fear you. You’re  _still_ one of the biggest crime lords in the city. Don’t you miss that feeling, on the streets? The rush? It’s like a drug.”

“What are you trying to say,” says Angel in a low, challenging voice. “I’m a bad person?”

You pause. Then: “I’m saying you should live for yourself. We’re in Hell, after all.”

He smirks. “You didn’t answer me.”

“We’re all bad down here.”

Tempting fate, your hands drift to his waist. He doesn’t resist, but you don’t try anything more.

“Angel,” you continue, “I’m not going to stop, you know that. But I can’t do it alone, I want someone with me I can trust.”

He snorts, laughing. “You trust me? Pockets, you’re a dumb fucker.”

“Probably.”

His hand goes from tie to your cheek, patting. “You’re really cute when you’re trying to act all serious.”

You chuckle. “You think I’m  _trying_?”

He doesn’t respond. Rather, his free arms slip around your back, and his black sclera eye stares into yours.

“Anon, listen to me. I’ve got my reasons for goin’ clean, kay? It might sound a little fuckin’ weird comin’ from me, but. . .”

His face moves closer to yours. “These days I’m a different kind of bad.”

You are, admittedly, quite disappointed. Why did this damn demon spider have to play so hard to get? At least, when it came to the realm of criminality.

“You need a reminder?” he adds, pecking you on the lips.

“You’ll blow me for money,” you say, amused, “But not help me rob the scummiest gangs in the city?”

He adorns a grin most mischievous, clearly tickled. “That’s riiiight.”

“You’re frustrating.”

He laughs. “Aww, sugar daddy, don’t be mad at widdle ol’ me.”

You pull him close now, your forms bracing. You can’t help it, letting your fingers coax and ride along the grooves of his sides. Again, despite his arachnid-appearance, he’s surprisingly curvaceous, a fact you’ve come to appreciate.

“I’m furious,” you say, Angel’s spare arms holding you at hips. “You really ought to make it up to me.”

Now, his fingers caress the nape of your neck, eyes glancing around.

“This ain’t exactly the coziest place,” he says. “I’ll improvise. . .”

You’ve got a handful of minutes, and in that time Angel Dust finds himself on his practiced needs. Again, his skilled digits have unraveled you at the loins, silky gloves massaging your length, nibbling at it with caresses and kisses. You groan, but cover your mouth, watching the demon service your root, like it were the last one in Hell.

He embraces you into his throat, hot, wet orifice clamped down with such delicate efficiency, causing his throat to bulge. His palms carefully grip your testes, running tongue against them, a chorus of slurps escaping him, along with trails of drool and presex. All at once, time starts to fade and you forget what you were initially doing here. Something, something, robberies, something, something, convince Angel Dust. Now, he’s got you in the palm of his hand, and you’re just along for the ride.

The only thing you recall is a burst of radiating heat exploding through your loins, along with the gagging, giggling noises emitting from Angel Dust’s “position.” He looks up, dawning a servile gaze, swallowing  _you,_ smirking.

“Gosh mister Anon, didn’t realize you were such a fan,” he says.

Your head is buzzing, but you play along. “You do this for all your backstage visits?”

He smirks. “Sometimes.”

He rubs his cheek, a stain of seed smearing it. “Aw, shit, I  _just_ did my face!”

He stands, while you zip back up, while he gestures for you to leave. “All right, you, shoo! I need to do this all over again!”

Angel grumbles, going back to his table as he cleans the smear of uh,  _you._ you chuckle, checking the time. That was good enough for a “visit” without raising any eyes with the group. Besides, you were expecting a call soon.

You bid farewell, glancing at him once more. You’re remiss he hasn’t reconsidered your offer, but, he’ll come around. You believe this. All you need to do is show him.

-*-

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

It was hard to hear the panicked ramblings of a cornered cheap-suit amidst all the chaos of fire and explosions. That’s what happened when a job went bad – somebody trips an alarm, hits volatile fuel, runs into some electric wire. Poof. Just like that, they’re up in smoke. Considering this is Hell, that’s saying something. To the inexperienced, this chaos is enough to break their morale – suddenly the job takes a backseat and their only concern is to  _survive._

Spade didn’t like this. He wandered through a maze of crates, where one crumpled Clubs was crouched, back to wood, peeking around corner. A river of red seeped from his shoulder and his form trembled with uncertainty.

“Didn’t go well?” said Spade, looming over him. Clubs jumped, spinning and pointing his Benelli, relaxing once he realized who it was.

“What the  _fuck_ man!” he hissed. “Almost blew your fuckin’ head off!”

Spade shrugged, a filled satchel swung over his shoulder. It was bloated with valuables – specifically the volatile explosive devices he was contracted to steal.

“Where are the others?” said Spade. Clubs shook his head.

“Wasted, fucking wasted. Ran into a tripwire! Queen got shot and Ace is fuckin smoked!”

Excuses, that’s all Spade heard. He noticed an absence of loot at Clubs’ side.

“What about the stuff?”

Clubs almost coughed with laughter. “Are you. . .  _fuck_ that! We need to leave! Where’s the van!?”

Spade shook his head. “Not leaving until we get what we were supposed to.”

Clubs was gobsmacked. “ _Are you outta’ your fucking mind?”_

Spade sighed, pulling out his suppressed weapon. He aimed it square at Clubs, tone laced with disdain.

“I told you. I’m a  _professional.”_

Clubs didn’t have time to squeeze his trigger, and just like that, he was a lifeless shape of nothing. Well, he’d be back again one day, just a lesser version of himself.

“Great.”

Well, that meant Spade was left with all the heavy lifting. The warehouse complex was consumed with chaos. Mostly fire and alarms. Lots of the Egg Boys had run off, short and incompetent as they were. Sir Pentious would probably hear about this, but not react soon enough for it to mean anything. So, Spade quickly set to work. He tracked down one of the caged vaults Ace had apparently tried to open, ignoring the pool of ash he was reduced to.

It was ajar enough Spade only had to finish what was started – and since the trap was set off, he was in no danger. At least the idiots were useful. Once open, the container revealed. . . well, not what Spade expected. It was a gold-plated cylinder, coming to Spade’s waist, humming with something. Energy? An engine? He couldn’t tell. He did know, however, this was the second priority target. With haste, he grabbed it. It was, thankfully, lightweight and compact.

When he loaded the van, the scene behind him was nothing short of a disaster. God, back in his day this would’ve been nice and quiet. Guess that’s what you got with cheap hired guns. When the loot was secured, Spade sped off through the front, van screeching to life as he pulled out his burner phone, dialing in a throwaway number. He was told no one would pick up, just to leave a message:

“Royal flush.”

Now came the waiting.

When he reached a safe distance – as in, on the other side of town – Spade pulled into a shadowed alley where he could quietly count down the hours. That was fine. He wanted to think, anyway. A job like this wasn’t an everyday burn-and-grab. The explosives he nabbed might be useful to someone looking to cause havoc, or, set up for the incoming Purge. But the other thing? What was that? No, you didn’t pick Pentious’ pockets unless you either had a deathwish, or plans.

It felt like hours Spade was waiting, staring at the pink-stained pentagram sealed sky. A snake of cig smoke trailed from his lips, to the point he almost didn’t hear footsteps. Someone to his left was approaching.

“I call,” the voice said.

Spade nodded. “Fold.”

The figure came closer but stayed in the dark. Spade assumed this was the guy.

“You’re short a full hand.”

Spade shrugged. “Occupational hazard. Some guys just aren’t cut out for it.”

Silence. Then: “And the rest?”

“Everything you asked for,” said Spade, gesturing to the van. “Hate to tell you this, but not exactly something you can flip. Nobody’s gonna’ buy that Pentious junk.”

“Not for sale.”

Spade chuckled. “I figured.”

The figure came closer, dim streetlight hitting his figure. He wore a regal suit, kept his face hidden, stature equivalent to Spade. At this, Spade went to the van, opening the back, followed by the other. He pointed to the contents.

“One bag of fuck-you and one. . . I don’t know what it is.”

“It’s important,” said the other.

Spade grunted. “You strike me as someone with ideas. Mind tellin’ me? For curiosity’s sake.”

“I don’t trust you.”

A chuckle. “I know, you’re not stupid. But part of me recognizes a bigger picture. This is vault breakin’ shit, isn’t it?”

No response.

“Mm. Yeah, I thought so. Haven’t seen anything like that in the PC for. . . fuck, I don’t even remember. Back when gangs didn’t run the streets and thieves had pride in what they did.”

Still no response.

“Well, at any rate. I’m not a taxi, so, it’s here for you.”

“Hide it.”

Spade laughed. “I don’t babysit, jackoff. I like you, but not that much.”

More quiet. Then:

“It’s the Sugary Chigurh.”

Spade stopped. He turned, staring at the silhouette. This time,  _he_ was silent.

“Now, hide it. I’ll call you again.”

The figure left, vanishing into the dark. Spade rubbed his head, glancing back to the van’s contents. This ballsy motherfucker. . .

“We’re gonna’ need a bigger fuckin’ van.”

-*-

So  _close._

She nibbled her finger, face stretched with a wide grin. Her deep, perilous sockets of scarlet peered out from the bubbling crowd, unblinking. Fascinated. Watching. Oh, so, so close. The exotic perfume broke through the stench of hard alcohol and filthy cigars, drifted over noxious food and filth of demon-kin.  _So close._ Yet, she remained. Quiet, patient, hopeful. It wasn’t time yet, it wasn’t time yet. But it would be, soon.

Oh, phencyclidine. You’re amazing. A bedazzling spectacle. Look at you, capturing the crowd in your little web of humors. How they love you, how they adore you. They’re dizzy on your chemical jokes, like you’ve injected them with yourself. Amazing. What an amazing gift. I should thank you, so much. You made it so easy, to find you, in this forest of neon towers.

Yes, happy. Sarin was so happy and  _so close._ Her legs didn’t reach the floor, but they tapped against her seat with wild excitement. Not once did her crimson sclera move. Not once did she blink. She waited, in the corner of the theater room, like an ignored variable. No one was looking her way. Which was a shame! She’d gotten all dressed up for the occasion too – nice dress skirt and all! She couldn’t bring any of her babies, but. . .

Later, later, for later. Right now, it was time to observe. Phencyclidine was the key, the thread binding everything together. He was a means to an end. Because if he was here, then  _he_ was here. Oh, she could feel it. Thief, oh thief! Where are you? Where are you in this undulating crowd of mindless vagabonds? You must be. You reeked of the spider’s perfume.

How long was long? Very long. Like an eternity broken into every second. It was a miracle when Phencyclidine finished his jokes, a downpour of lights showering the audience. He waved to them, and she waved back, even though he didn’t see her. He vanished behind the curtains. Sarin’s ears went alert, vertical, scanning. Everyone started to move. More terrible food was served, along with an atrocious drink. But these were distractions, useless nodes of data. There was another piece at play here, one she had to find.

But the task proved impossible. Simply too many faces and voices and noise. The smells were awful, causing her rabbit nose to wiggle in disgust. Demons shifted from place to place, all randomized and thoughtless.

But then. . . something.

Her wide eyes went  _wider._ Oh, he almost got away. So quick, so fleet-of-foot. Hiding in plain sight. There, there, THERE. THERE, THERE, THERE.

A shape of dark, a suited fellow, moving through the crowd and beyond them, following Angel Dust. He stuck to the sides, the corners, the places where eyes don’t go. Was it a fan? No, couldn’t have been. It matched what few descriptions existed, stature, suit and all. The thief, the thief, that she was sure of. So, so, so close.

She almost cracked her face with her stretching smile.

A waitress approached. “Ma’am, can I get you anything else?”

Sarin’s eyes did not leave the thief’s direction.

“No thank you,” she said. [“I have everything I need.”](https://youtu.be/Y8DekFFCE5c)


	5. Bad For You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's almost time. The breath before the plunge, the moment before the draw, the finger before the trigger, the quiet before the scream. You're Anon, Master Thief, and your first big score is about to come to fruition. But before the plan reaches execution, you want some time with your only friend, Angel Dust.
> 
> You're all bad for each other.

**Bad For You**

Quiet. Why did it feel so quiet? The air was heavy with a tranquil, anxious pause. Voices muffled, sounds distorted. Right, but _not_ right.

The breath before the plunge, that’s why. It was almost time. In front of you, an elaborate blueprint hung on the wall, white etchings indicating various exits, entries, and locations deemed significant. The skeleton of the  _Sugary Chigurh_ was exposed and you intended to pick through the bones until you found the heart – specifically its vault. A prize beyond measure, a score worth taking. It filtered numerous streams of dark money from every corner of Pentagram City – lowlife and gang lord alike. Sure, the Gadzooks and the Splinters had the appearance of control, but truly, the vault was its own entity, its own nation of wealth. It belonged to no one – because everyone belonged to  _it._

Soon it would be time. Soon the dice would roll, the cards flip, the draw made. You had the resources and the manpower; all it came down to was execution. And yet, it surrounded you with the awful noise of  _silence._ In your room, in your mind, you could hear only yourself.

 _This has to work,_ you tell yourself.  _This must work. This will work. I will make it work. They will know me. They will know my schemes._

It was unbearable.

There was something else. As you stared at the wall, eyeing the map of white scrawlings, another thought plagued you. It’d had eaten at you since a few nights ago, at the outing. At the show, as Angel Dust made his jokes, his casual references to a grim reality, the concept troubled you. But fucking  _why?_ Who cares – he was an effeminate demon spider, a hooker who picked you up and got you out of a bad pinch. So what. Who cares? Why care?  _Who. Cares._

You did. Was it because of your innate greed? Your desire for  _everything?_ You were a thief, a specimen of lust, hungry for money and reputation. Was Angel, then, just another jewel, another briefcase of drugs and cash ripe for the plucking? You rubbed your temples.

No. Something was different. This whole fucking Hotel was  _different._ Different enough that a once renowned ganglord refused you,  _you!_ Anon: Master Thief! How could Angel Dust – a multi-handed fiend with a fetish for drugs, bondage, and excess – turn you down? Turn away from this heist, this path of grandeur and renown? Because he was trying to get  _better?_ This angered you. And yet, it  _endeared_ him to you. Angel was a broken, sexual mess, and yet, he thought himself good enough for redemption. He believed he could be saved. Maybe, then, he believed  _you_ could be saved too, despite how laughable a prospect that was.

You stood. Be damned this silence. The longer it remained, the more you could think, and these idle thoughts, they mocked you.

Leaving the room, you strolled down the hall. It was late, and most of the Hotel lights were off save for the necessary. Everyone was likely asleep. This didn’t stop you, and soon, you found yourself in front of Angel’s gauche door, staring into it like it were another vault filled with untouchable prizes. You stood that way for a while, quiet settling over you. The fucking quiet.

It wouldn’t be this way for long. Soon you would strike, put your plans into motion. You didn’t know if you’d be standing here again, after the fact. So, you knocked.

“Angel?” you say, voice low.

Nothing. You almost laugh at yourself – what are you doing? You have more important things to do. And yet, you can’t walk away. So, you knock again.

“It’s me,” you add. “Are you awake?”

More of the damning quiet, and maybe you should take the hint. It’s well past midnight and even demons need respite. Yet, as you ready to turn, the door crackles with unhinging locks, and there’s a muffled grumble accompanying them. It creaks ajar.

“Can’tafuckinguyfuckhisowna-”

Angel peers through, stopping himself. “Eh?”

The door swings open. His eyes are a little hazy, and he’s not in his usual attire – rather a long pink shirt coming down to his curvy waist. His puffy cleavage isn’t visible, but it’s formed a slope on his chest. He leans on the door frame, brow raised.

“Anon? The hell are you doing?”

Good question. What  _are_ you doing?

You shrug. “Can’t sleep.” Liar.

Angel Dust blinks. His eyes flick from side to side, like he's expecting someone else to jump out from the dark. “What? This a booty call? Kinda’ tired. Can I just jack you off?”

You manage a chuckle. “No, not exactly. Just wanted to talk, actually. Haven’t since the show.”

He peers at you, maybe in disbelief. “Yeah? Whose fault is ‘dat? I ain’t the one been sulkin’ in my room. And I  _don’t_ play therapist – go talk to blondie if you’re having a second coming or some shit.”

You don’t budge. “You’re the only one I trust.”

Angel looks like you’ve slapped him with a brick. He sighs, pushing the frame open, gesturing for you to enter. “Fiiiiiine. Get the fuck in here.” He mutters. "WorsethanbadweedIswearatthistimeofnight. . ."

Relieved, you do so, stepping into his lavish, pink room, lock clicking shut behind you. There are only a few lights on, washing the interior with a dull ambiance, and a massive gold-trim TV is on, flicking between a series of Hell-approved commercials. Angel Dust saunters past you, hips swinging with melancholy sway, before throwing himself back into the bed. As he does, something shifts in the corner – a ball of fleshy pink groaning with a little squeak.

You blink, noting it immediately. It’s a little fuzzy pink animal – or so you think. In fact, upon closer inspection, it’s a pig.

You point to it. “Uh, what’s that?”

Angel Dust settles into his covers, flicking you an annoyed gaze.

“That’s my baby. Don’t you fuckin’ wake him up.”

You look at the little oink again. You’re perplexed – you’ve never seen Angel care about anything this much aside from drugs and cock. You find it endearing. He crosses his legs in the meanwhile, attention returning to the screen. He points to a chair without looking at you.

“Might as well get comfy.”

You sit, resting in the cushion. “Thanks.”

There’s a pause in the air as you search for the words, the right thing to say. You’re not even sure  _what_ you want to start with – so many buzzy words swirling in your head. You want to try and convince Angel again, but you also want to ask him about, well,  _him._

Angel notices. “Pretty quiet for someone who stopped by to ‘chat,” he says, annoyed.

“Sorry, sorry. There’s a lot on my mind.” You consider. Finally, you start with something casual:

“So, you have a pig for a pet.”

This, at least, procures a smile from Angel, who blows a kiss to the sleeping hog.

“Yeh. My sweet little baby-boo.”

“He’s got a name?”

A snicker. “Fat Nuggets.”

That. . . doesn’t surprise you. “How creative.”

Angel sticks his tongue at you. “My pig, my name.”

You ignore this. “They just casually sell pigs at pet shop’s in hell?”

Angel Dust stretches, pushing himself further into his elaborate pillows. “Nah. Found him in the gutter pickin’ at some dead guy. Poor little bastard was starvin’. He wandered up to me and, I dunno, we clicked. Gave him some food, greedy bitch took it right outta’ my hand.”

The warmth in Angel’s voice is not lost on you, and it’s the first time you’ve heard him reflect on something with such. . . sincerity.

He continues, again, gaze not at you. “Guess I’m pretty good at savin’ poor shits, eh?”

You cross your arms. “You calling me poor?”

“If you’re not personally wearing Satan’s golden balls, then yeah, I’d consider ya' a jerry hockin for pennies.”

“Maybe not for long,” you say. Another unsettling silence forms between you two. Angel’s aware of what you mean.

Now, he looks at you. “Makin’ a lot of trouble for yourself, pockets.”

“You knew that was the case when you met me. Besides, I thought you  _liked_ trouble.”

He grumbles. “Yeah, dumbass. I do. You’re the  _best_ kind of trouble, asshole.”

You return his gaze. “Meaning?”

Angel Dust turns the television volume down, spare arms crossing.

“Ghh, you’re frustratin’, you know that? Here I am, tryin’ to go clean and then  _you_ gotta’ show up, waggin’ all that cash and dick around. You’ve got some nerve.”

You realize he’s half-serious.

“Hard enough I gotta’ pretend with all the other high-dollar whores I’m still sportin’ guns for every itchy trigger finger. Oh they keep askin ‘Angie when’s your next big murder spree’ and I gotta’ play it off like it’s nothin. It’s driving me crazy. And then  _you,_ ya’ big fuckhead, gettin’ us all wrapped in your, your. . .”

He wiggles his hands and fingers together, like making a shape.

“Plans,” you say.

He rolls his eyes.

“I thought I was the one who needed to talk,” you add. Angel flips you off.

“Prick.” He pouts.

You know he’s faking it – mostly.

“You don’t  _have_ to lie about it, you know,” you say. Your intuition was right then, was it? That his desires were akin to yours – the appetite for violence and reputation? The lust for wealth?

“You’re the only one I trust,” you say again. “And I could use someone I trust with me.”

Angel Dust stops you with a point. “There you go, tryin’ that shit. I told you to knock it  _off.”_

At this, you are admittedly frustrated. Your arms drop, hands coming together, leaning.

“You keep telling me you want to get better. But  _why?_ This city respects you. They  _fear_  you. And you’d give that up? For what?”

You look at the TV and an old grainy movie is playing – poorly dressed demons are stabbing another poorly dressed monster. Ugly angels also appear, speaking, with text coming up to show their old-world dialogue. Hmph.

“Redemption?”

Angel looks at you, then away. A part of you fears you’ve overstepped, more so when he shifts, getting off the bed. But he simply struts to his closet, pulling it open.

“You sleepin’ with me tonight or what?”

The question catches you off guard. “Ah, what? Oh.”

You didn’t know if he meant sleeping with him or  _fucking_ him. Probably both.

“Uh. Yes.”

He mutters, incoherent curses flowing from him, as he yanks out another pair of fat, luxurious pillows. He comes back to the bed, tossing them on the sheets, moving so there’s a vacant space next to him. 

“I hate that you’re so much like him. It drives me fuckin’ crazy,” he says, voice low. Now that  _really_ takes you off guard.

“What? Who?”

One of his free arms pats the empty sheets. You get the hint, taking off your shoes and joining. As you fall into the bedding, a lovely ambrosia of perfume settles over you, along with the silky embrace of Angel’s luxurious bed. As you do, Angel smiles. His eyes aren’t toward anything in particular, pensive and even somber.

“Fuck, he had a nice jaw. Broad shouldered sonofabitch. He smelled like cheap brandy and cigarettes. Some of that shit cologne too,  _Bandit,_  I think they called it. Every Jack and mary-popper was stainin' their suits with it.”

You aren’t sure what Angel dust is talking about – or rather who – but you don’t interrupt.

“I remember seein’ him at one of dad’s get togethers, where all his fat fuck friends made jokes about the docks and drownin’ a mulatto or something. One night it was a big, huge gathering, and this guy, this tall handsome sonofabitch, he’s there. And he just  _knew_ who I was, what I was about. We leave and he’s got this voice like llqour, and he’s tellin’ me all these things. Right in my ear. . .”

You glance at Angel and you can see him blush. His arms wring around a pillow, hugging it tight, voice growing in intensity. Something else dawns on you – he’s talking about when he was alive.

“Mm, that night. Filthy rain and the boardwalk was a mess. Cheap garbage hotel after a few drinks and there’s Crosby on. I feel like I’m gonna’ fucking drown in this guy, and I’ll do anything for em’, go anywhere.”

Now he grins. “And gh, he fucks me  _hard._ I’m pretty sure we broke the bedsprings – probably could hear us through the damn wall. Couldn’t feel my legs, was so fuckin' sore. . .”

Another pause. More quiet. That insufferable quiet. You’re listening now, more than curious.

“Mornin’ and he’s already rolling. He tells me he made a huge mistake – we both did. That we couldn’t do it ever again or they’d fuckin’ kill us. And I tell him over and over I don’t care or all that shit but he ain’t havin’ it, so. That’s how it goes.”

Angel starts to laugh. “Couple weeks later, I’m hearin’ one of dad’s loudmouth fuckboy hitmen yammer about some guy. Some tall guy with a square jaw, how they found out he was a fairy, and how they literally broke his balls and made him tell how many guys he fucked until they threw him in the river.”

Angel’s laughing harder now, rubbing his head with palm.

“He didn’t say shit. Didn’t say a word. And I knew who it was – sonofabitch probably saved my life. For a while, anyway.”

You’re not sure what to say – or what you  _could_ possibly say.

All you can manage is this: “What was his name?”

Angel’s laugh settles, and he just shrugs. “Can’t remember.”

You hesitate, uncertain if you should ask your next question, fearing it pries too much. But you chance it anyway.

“And this is why you want to be. . . better?”

Angel closes his eyes a moment. He takes a while to respond.

“Figure if I get into heaven, I’ll find him.”

His expression doesn’t change though, still smiling with casual disregard for his own memory, much like he did on stage, turning his experiences into one big comedy act.

He sighs. “Then there’s you.”

He leans now, his slender form pressing into your side. “Two-bit nobody with big ideas rollin’ gangs and comin’ home with money. Ambitious shithead. You picked the  _worst_ time to show up, huh? Couldn’t have popped up an eternity ago when I was makin’ moves for myself? Aww, pockets, it would’ve been. . .”

He grumbles. “So perfect.”

You manage a chuckle. “I’m bad for you, is what you’re saying.”

One of Angel’s free arms comes around you, hands gripping with a warm caress.

“You’re like a whiskey after-chase after a line of blow, ya prick. The candy-man in a rehab clinic.”

You close your eyes a brief moment, relaxing from Angel’s warm, practiced touch.

“But dammit pockets. . .” Angel continues. “As much as I want it, it ain’t the way for me anymore.”

You find your head falling on his. “Because of the one-night stand?”

“Because of  _a lot_ of things. When I got down here I wanted to be the biggest, flamiest-fag this side of bad Satan fanfiction, just to  _piss my fuckin’ family off._ And it was pretty nice. How mad you think my pops was when he found out I was workin’ the pole, blowing dudes for money,  _and_ the biggest criminal name since Capone, eh?”

You’re surprised. “Your father is  _here?”_

Angel shrugs. “Course he is. He comes to my shows to flip me off.”

Again, you’re bewildered, but you hold on to the information for later.

 “So, yeah,  _mad._ But, I got my rocks off. And what would really top it off if this cock-sucking concierge managed to get the hell outta’ dodge. My last grand ‘fuck you.’ Understand?”

You let your own arm slip around his waist, risking a touch, but Angel doesn’t resist, and you both snug closer.

“So, it’s revenge, then.”

He scoffs. “It’s anything, Anon. But I  _want_ it, and that’s all that matters.”

That, at least, you understand. To want and desire were synonymous with you, a creature of ambitious greed. If nothing else, to act for the sake of yourself was very  _right._

Another pause. Angel snags his remote and flicks through the channels, stopping on a rerun of Hell’s news channel. There are clips of the nefarious Cherri Bomb flicking off the camera and blowing something up, proceeded by her flashing her tits and then tossing something at the camera-demon, also blowing them up. Angel Dust snickers.

“How do you remember this?” you say.

“Remember what? My shows?”

“No, no. These memories. How?”

Angel Dust glances to you. “What? From bein’ alive? You’re telling me you can’t?”

You reflect a moment, trying hard to reach into the abyss of your mind. From that darkness, only fractions and strained images arrived, blurry snapshots of the life you had before. They’re all distorted, unclear. You  _know_ they exist and, they provide context of who you are, but yet,  _don’t._ It’s as if you’re trying to read a book about your life but all the text is washed away and muddled.

“I just get pieces back. Fragments, sometimes. I think I remember voices and a man. We’re somewhere and he’s afraid. We’re running, I think. I’m pretty sure it’s the moment before I died.”

Angel Dust frowns. “That’s weird. But, I’unno pockets. Guess it came back with time. I’ve been around here a while, ya’ know.”

Well, time you had endless quantities of. Perhaps, as the spider suggested, it would come back when enough days had passed.

“This what you stopped by to talk about?” he adds. “Cause’ I told you, I ain’t a therapist. Better off asking daddy’s favorite daughter about that.”

You shake your head. “It’s not. But I wouldn’t anyway, I don’t trust her either.”

Angel almost chokes on a chuckle. “Wow. Girl is trying to redeem everybody, and you think she’s trouble? But a hooker who does blow and keeps fuckin’ machine guns in his closet, that’s no problem for ya’, huh?”

You smirk. “That’s right.”

Angel’s frame shakes from an eruption of laugher. “Oh my fuckin’ GOD, Anon.”

He leans over, kissing your cheek. “That’s depressing.”

The sensation of his soft lips sends tingles through you. More silence lingers as the broadcast continues to show the carnage incited by Hell’s “finest.” One of Pentious’ machines shows up, and you can’t help but smile. You wonder, briefly, if the snake-scientist realizes you've robbed him?

“Ya’ picked a hell of a time to start all this bullshit,” Angel comments, pointing at the screen. “Why can’t you just do drugs and fuck like a good boy, eh?”

You want to say it’s a matter of pride and reputation.

“It’s what I’m good at it. I suppose it’s all I know,” you say instead. Angel squeezes you, much like he’s clutching something precious.

“Ain’t gotta’ be like that,” he says. “Little violence here, little robbery there – you could keep it real simple. But knockin’ over a casino? Even I didn’t pull that shit.”

You return his squeeze. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were concerned.”

He scoffs, though it sounds forced. “Don’t get any ideas,  _sugar daddy.”_

“Unfortunately for us both, I’ve got too many of them.”

He gives a defeated sigh. “Anon. . . ya know if you do that, I can’t. I mean. I can’t help you.”

You knew this now, and you’d come to accept it. But, for the briefest of moments, you reconsider everything. For a fraction of seconds, you think, perhaps, maybe you  _won’t_ go through with everything. Maybe, if Angel Dust asked you, right here and now, to reconsider, you would. But you are a creature of greed. You’re Anon, a master thief, and you have plans for this city, and  _they will come to fruition._

“You won’t need to.”

He grumbles.

“Think you’re that good, huh?”

You stare at the screen, noting all the carnage, the wayward destruction. It’s disorganized and rambunctious, lacking thought. Even Sir Pentious, a self-proclaimed genius with an arsenal rivaling entire armies, seems to react on instinct, hunger. You, on the other hand, are more considerate.

“If there’s anything I know, Angel, it’s this. Breaking banks is all I’m good at.”

Angel Dust snickers. Accompanying his mischievous laugh is a hand, rolling to your crotch, idly squeezing.

“Not  _all.”_

You grunt, then shiver. Angel Dust always finds a way with you. . .

Now, he sighs, and his frame moves. He swings over you, and his lithe, curvaceous body is pressed against yours, free hands around your neck while his forehead touches yours. He kisses you again, on the lips, and a gentle warmth forms between you.

“If only I’d met ya’ sooner,” he says, offering a sad smile. “Fuckin’ jerk. Ugh.”

You return his embrace, kissing him harshly. “Shut up.”

Your hands sneak to his back, the curve of his rump, spreading and squeezing, procuring a harsh gasp from him. Soon, you start to tangle together, shift, disrobe. It’s no longer quiet.

-*-

“Sure about that?”

Mel stared at his hire with anxious uncertainty. Her wild, unblinking eyes of horrid scarlet affixed on him, and that ugly smile, it never faded. Like she found everything amusing.

“I’m not sure, I’m  _certain.”_

He tapped his desk, a trial of cigar smoke winding through the air. Dim light filled his office room, while fear settled over him. Didn’t matter that his bodyguards were right outside the door, or that he had a handgun in the drawer. Something about this. . . Sarin put him ill at ease. Maybe it was that clinical, medicinal odor she carried, the kind of thing you smell when you sterilize flesh. Maybe her enthuse for killing. Maybe the holy water she used in all her poisons.

Leaning back, he took a breath, attempting to focus.

“So, he’s shaggin’ that she-he, huh?”

It’d been a few weeks since he let loose his hunter to track down the cheap suit knocking over Splinter hideouts. Whoever the fuck was, they were good at hiding. Until now, that is. According to Sarin, the thief in question had a thing for prostitutes, namely the most infamous of them all: Angel Dust. By finding the spider, they were close. Mel relished the idea of hanging this nuisance by their entrails. In the same vein though, they couldn’t just  _do_ it.

“Didn’t he retire? Ain’t seen him on the streets in a while,” Mel mused.

Sarin tilted her head. “Does it matter?” she said, still smiling.

Oh, it bloody did. Mel didn’t know the extent of the thief’s relationship with Angel Dust, but if it was good, that presented complications. You didn’t fuck with spider – retired or no. There was a reason he was one of Hell’s biggest criminal names.

“I ain’t gonna be the one to turn this into a turf war,” said Mel. “I just want the thief, that’s it.”

He shook his head. “He can’t be that forward thinkin’. Can’t be. No way that spider gives two-shits about rollin’ mobs.”

Sarin giggled. “You’re not taking this very seriously, are you?”

Mel leered, a rush of red flushing through his otherwise azure features.

“The fuck did you say to me?”

Sarin leaned. Her small rabbit hand pressed onto Mel’s desk, and there was a crackling, terrible hiss from the contact.

“You’re underestimating him. You don’t even  _know,_ do you?”

Mel grimaced. “Don’t play games with me. I hired you, do your job.”

He didn’t think it possible for the rabbit to smile wider, but she did.

“It’s funny what you learn with just the right amount of poison.”

She tapped her chin, starting to pace around the room.

“Silly, silly,  _silly._ It’s your money. It’s  _all_ your money. How could you not see?”

Mel slammed the table. “What the FUCK are you talking about?”

Her gaze came back to the gang boss.

“Phencyclidine was at the casino.  _Your_  casino. And where the spider is. . .”

Mel blinked. He thought a moment, not understanding at first. But, as his thoughts settled, things started to click. The thief was with the spider, and if that was the case, at the casino.

“When?”

Sarin giggled again. “Close enough you should be concerned.”

It settled over Mel. Shit. Shit! Of course. Of course, that fucking thief would try something so ballsy. The  _Chigurh_ had everyone’s pockets. There was money coming in from every leftover gang since the founding of Pentagram City. What better way to make a name for yourself? That little  _fuck._ Thought he was so clever, did he?

“All right, all right,” said Mel, sitting, steepling fingers. “Good. So, we trap the bastard. Easy. We just need to know when.”

Sarin shook her head. “Now, now. Don’t make a fuss. If you try something funny, he’ll notice. He’ll find out  _he’s_ been found out.”

Mel waved her off. “This ain’t up for debate. You have  _any_ idea what’s in that goddamn vault? I’m not taking any chances. Nobody is.”

Again, Sarin giggled. This time, she hopped onto Mel’s desk, pale white fur caught by the lamplight.

“No, no. You don’t understand. I’m not  _making_  a suggestion. I’m  _telling you.”_

Mel’s heart went cold. “Get out.”

“Aww, don’t be rude.”

Where her frame made contact with the desk, again, terrible hissing noises emerged, like her flesh were caustic to everything it touched.

“Don’t even fucking try it. . .” Mel warned, tone coated with fear.

Her face came to his, and her unbearable red eyes bored into his.

“Let me do my job,  _silly.”_

He grunted. “If you think you can threaten me and every gang in Pentagram City. . .”

She reached out and touched his face, to which Mel flinched, falling back in his chair.

“I did just fine in Guernica, thank you.”

Another head tilt. Then, Sarin hopped from the desk prancing away. Mel grimaced, wanting nothing more than to shoot her square in her stupid rabbit head. But as he tried to move, his flesh froze. A burning ran through him, and his breathing turned coarse.

“HGGGuAH!”

His throat caught and his lungs boiled over as he tried to call for his guards. They couldn’t hear him. They were dead too.

Sarin skipped along, excited. Almost time, almost time. All she had to do now was  _wait._

-*-

You peel your eyes open. The weight of the morning falls over you, along with fatigue. Er, was it morning? Where were you?

A ceiling you didn’t recognize met your weary gaze. It was strangely colored – pink. Pink? Oh. This wasn’t your room. Realization hit you, more so as you turned your head, eyeing a sleeping figure of fluff white. Angel Dust was curled into a pillow, as were one of his arms. The other, a spare one, was draped over you, possessive grasp keeping you close. His bare fingers were like warm silk, accented by his exotic perfume. It was nice. Too nice. A cozy, infatuated want settled over you. You could stay like this forever, you think. If it were possible to steal a moment of time, it’d be this one.

You can’t, though. You have plans for this city. You sit up, pensive, trying to remember what lies ahead. It was time, almost time. All you had to do was wait.

As you shifted, Angel Dust murmured, arm leaving you and curling into the covers. You look at him with a fondness – the kind you don’t like. The kind going beyond greed and desire, lust and want. The kind skipping infatuation. He was your friend though, that was normal, right? This other thing you felt. . .

Your movement is noticed, but not by the slumbering arachnid. Rather, a series of oinks catches your attention, and a fat ball of spotted pink scrambles atop the bed. A squat pig is staring at you, curious eyes unblinking as his flat nose wriggles with sniffs. He approaches you, slowly, stumbling through the covers with his clumsy hooves.

“Uh. . .”

It squeaks again, approaching. You put out your hand then, letting him catch your scent. But, he doesn’t approach, instead taking the safer route and going to his master, nosing at Angel Dust. At once the spider recoils, groaning and grunting, unconscious form trying to push the intruder away. But the pig is relentless, happily prodding at the spider until forcing him awake.

“Mmrmrngah?”

Angel’s black sclera eye yanks open, irritated.

“Wha? Nuh? Fat Nuggets?” he croaks, tone dry and weary. “The hell you want you adorable little fuck. . .”

Angel’s arms come sliding around his pig, holding Fat Nuggets close. You don’t know why, but something about a spider and a pig seems familiar.

Fat Nuggets oinks in jubilation, procuring more annoyed grunts from Angel.

“Allrightallrightallright!” he says, starting to raise himself. “I’m up, JEE-zus.”

He sits up, kissing Fat Nuggets, petting him. Then, he notices you. He flushes, perhaps because he didn’t expect to be seen with his favored pet pig.

“Oh. Uh. You’re still here.”

You nod. “Still here.”

Angel Dust blinks, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, giving a big yawn. He sets Fat Nuggets down, the little oink hopping around in playful circles.

“That’s a new one,” Angel comments. He checks the time, looking at a gauche, overly-ornate clock on his wall. “Fucking shit, it’s noon?”

You chuckle. “Somewhere to be?”

The spider stretches. “Nng. Usually outta’ my fuckin’ mind around now.”

He hops out of bed, running fingers over his head. His nude frame still holds delightful curves, especially noticeable as he saunters to the other side of the room, rump offering the gentlest of bounces. He goes to a table, pulling out a bag of sparkling white, tossing it on a gold tray.

“You uh. Uhm. Uh, sleep okay?”

He asks you without looking, and it dawns on you an encounter like this is new to him, or, unfamiliar. When, indeed, was the last time someone he slept with stuck around this long?

“Better than I have in a long time,” you say. A truth – you hardly rest at all. “And you?”

“It’s  _noon,”_ he says, retrieving a knife. You chuckle again.

You watch him cut and snort whatever god-forsaken substance he’s acquired, and he shivers, the ecstasy of the drug hitting him at once. He continues to sniff, rubbing his visage, where apparently there’s a space for his nose – if he even has one. You don’t ask. As he does, the curious Fat Nuggets comes to you now, nosing you. It seems he wants pets, and you oblige. His skin is odd – rough and hairy, but also soft. As you caress the little oink, he curls into your lap, squiggle tail swinging around. When Angel sees this, he can’t hide his smile.

“Sweet little fucker, ain’t he?”

Fat Nuggets looks up at you with wide, curious eyes. “For Hell? He’s like a puppy."

Angel Dust saunters back over, getting back into the covers.

 

“He really likes ya.”

You scratch behind the pig’s ears. “Well. Animals, at least, I trust.”

"Ya' got problems in that department, Anon."

A quiet forms in the room. But it’s a quiet you like – peaceful, tranquil, something you could live with. It also carries a heavy cost, because it worms its way into you. You start to forget yourself. Your desires. The job. The mark. Something else is taking place. Something. . .

A buzz catches your attention. On the counter next to you, hiding in your shirt. A droning, terrible buzz. A horrible noise, a dreadful thing. Because it’s your phone, and someone is calling you. The only someone you have contact with – Spade. The world you’re in now, this warm bed with Angel, this connection, it fades. Soon you’re reminded. You’re Anon, Master Thief.

You pick up the phone. As you do, you don’t see Angel’s smile fade, or his expression of resignation. You can’t see his gaze, which looks at you like it does with everyone else –  _expectation._ He sniffs, but not from the drugs.

You, in the meantime, answer: “Yes?”

-*-

Spade looked it over, the machine. He wasn’t a technician, so knowing the ins and outs of the abomination wasn’t possible. But he did understand what it was for: breaking vaults the fuck open. It was powered by ill-gotten gains, the strange device he was directed to steal – a generator made by Pentious. Said generator would provide energy to blow open even the strongest demonic metal, precisely what was required if they wanted to succeed.

“It’s ready,” he said to the phone. “Got the explosives accounted for. Crew is ready to roll. Got the getaway.”

_“I’m glad to hear.”_

Spade rubbed his head. “Yeah.”

_“Something wrong?”_

Spade looked around. The hideout was small, just a shoddy warehouse where a few other demons had gathered in service of the score. Spade had a low opinion of them, much like the first crew he ran with. But too late now, they were all in.

“Nope. Just hope you’re ready. Once we do this. . . well. Just hope you’re ready to make enemies of the whole goddamn city.”

A pause. Then: “ _Are you?”_

“Ain’t nobody more ready than me, buddy. Just need the word.”

_“Give me some time.”_

Spade sighed. Excited anxiety was bubbling through him. He’d rather get started  _now,_ but he had to wait.

“Hey, I ain’t some cunt on prom night. Don’t stand me up.”

The response as agitated.  _“Give me some **time.”**_

“Sure.”

The tone eased.  _“Good. I’ll call you soon. We’re almost ready.”_

There was a click, and Spade set the phone down. He adjusted his suit, looking out past a warehouse window, out to the bleak silhouette of Pentagram City. The  _Sugary Chigurh_ was easy to spot, even from here, a blitz of gaudy neon and gold.

-*-

_Maybe bein’ good aint’ all it’s cracked up to be. I mean, fuck it, right? You swear off the sauce, you stop rollin’ bozos off the street, you even throw yourself into rehab as patient fuckin’ zero for something that might not even work. And for what? Getting’ shafted all over again. Same ol’ goddamn song. Fucking hell, I’m so stupid. What did I expect, really? Jee-zus. He’s like everyone else, cause’ we’re in Hell. Nobody can change down here._

_FuckinganonIhateyousomuchyoustupidshithead. You’re supposed to be my fuckin’ friend._

_Dumbass. Hope you get hurt. Hope your stupid little plan goes all south so your stupid head gets stupid shot. Stupid._

_. . ._

_I don’t. . ._

_Don’t get hurt._

_Please don’t get hurt, you fuck._

_I can’t go with you. You don’t get that? And I wanna’. I wanna’ so bad, you’ve no fuckin’ idea. Every part of me is screaming that it’s the most right goddamn thing I could ever do. It’s perfect. I could do it forever. I could do it until the streets are a bloody fuckin’ soup. But I can’t._

_And you’re stupid and you’re gonna get hurt and I can’t do shit about it. Fuck you._

_. . ._

_Come back._

_Fucker. You won’t._

_I can’t help. Can I? Maybe. . ._

Angel Dust twirled a knife through his skilled digits, swaggering to his friend. Her cyclopean eye stared at him with enthuse, married with her toothy, terrifying grin. She was tossing an explosive in hand, sitting atop wreckages of metal and guts.

“Angel!” she exclaimed hopping down, arms spread. “There you are you four-armed fuckboy! Where you been, you hot slut!?”

Angel Dust shrugged, returning his own smile. “Bitch, just been fabulous on the pole, as usual.”

He looked around, whistling. A carnival of dead Egg Boys, Pentious robots, fire, and blood comprised what used to be a few building blocks.

“Damn girl, no remorse.”

Cherri Bomb hugged him, and he returned it with enthuse. Perhaps, because, he wished it was someone else hugging him.

“So,” he continued as they broke embrace, “What’s this solid ya’ need, babe?”

-*-

Sarin stared at the  _Sugary Chigurh_ from the darkness of her room. It was pitch black, save for her eyes. Her staring, red eyes. It was quiet. So, so, so quiet.

[But soon it wouldn’t be](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5NB7RBZ1yGY).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this is proper motivation for Angel Dust to fall back on old habits, and sets him up for his little "territorial genocide" with Cherri Bomb.


	6. Vault

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for you to put your plan in motion.

**Vault**

 

“Both dead, sir.”

Macron stared at his long-time servant with tired expectancy. Gilbert was around since he founded the now retired _Ancestors,_ prim and diligent, but even his usual routine of bringing a cup of blood tea (one sugar, stirred well) and the latest in the news did nothing to settle him. He tapped his fingers against the desk, papers washed by the rays of washed-out pink intruding from his massive room vista – once a portal of promise, but now dread.

“Lucifer below.” Macron shook his head. He stood from his chair, towering over his aide by several feet, bleach white hands rolling together. “Mel’s hunter, was it?”

Gilbert nodded, setting down the porcelain. “Yes, sir. The girl.”

“That is no girl,” Macron said, rubbing his chin. “I don’t know where he found her. . .”

Gilbert pursed his lips. “I believe she found _him_ , sir.”

Macron uttered a single chuckle. He turned, looking out to the city. There, in the distance, his magnum opus was visible – the _Sugary Chigurh,_ a blitz of gold and lights, pillar of promise and hope to all. Well, it used to be. Something twisted his cuts, spiked his spine with a dread fear. A tape was left with Mel’s corpse (if you could count the wet, untenable puddle a corpse, that is). Brief, ghostly footage, but essential. It showed, what Macron assumed, was the thief, in his casino. And if he was there. . .

“Ever wonder what’s beyond the city limits, Gilbert?”

The servant looked at his lord with complexity. Did he sense fear? How? His lord was a towering, imposing thing. Sour, pale flesh coated a slim but terrifying frame, a head adorned with twisted, chaotic horns, like fungal bones. He was an original, from the oldest days. How could he be afraid?

“Sir?”

Macron chuckled. “There’s nothing, so the legends say. But I hear it makes for good hiding.”

Gilbert’s eyes widened.

“. . .should I call Him, sir?”

Macron laughed. To what end? Placate the Master of Hell? Hah. No.

“And say what? Aha, no. I don’t think He’d find it amusing. His trust is a limited currency, and anyone who betrays it, ah, well. You don’t hear about them anymore.”

 _Goddamned fool,_ he thought. _Haven’t any idea what you’re about to open, are you?_

“But there must be something, sir. Something we can do. _I_ can do!”

Gilbert stared at his master, a frail hope in his eyes.

Macron turned, eyeing the steaming cup of tea. “Yes. You can. I’ll take another sugar.”

-*-

Spade took a long drag of his cigarillo, hacking up the foul stuff.

“Fuck, cheap shit.”

His counterpart chattered with laughter. Chattered, because they were a contraption of bones, a skeleton lined with a network of gears, pumps, and joints. The skull was painted in vibrant colors, the rest of it draped in dirty cloth. It took the cigar back when Spade tossed it over, putting it between its dusty teeth.

“Startin’ to think you didn’t die in a shootout, _hombre,_ ” Spade chided. He had to. It was almost time. Anxiety ate at his guts, the right kind, the kind sending nervous energy through every vein in your body.

Just as well, he didn’t know this crew either. The bones? Cover and suppression. Spoke one language, but hardly spoke it. Came from the heart of Mexico, a hired gun for shootin’ screamin’ Comanche reds. Did some foul shit, killed people by the dozens, most at range. Sniper at his back, cigar in his mouth. Or its mouth. Whatever. Went by _Sicario._

“Oh, he did. Right through his head. Kapow. One shot.” The other voice. A bigger, daunting figure appeared at Sicario’s side, flesh crimson, sitting on the couch with his longshot friend. Sicario laughed again, miming a gun to his dome, making a ‘pew’ sound.

If Spade didn’t have to sit one more day in the tiny hideout house with these fucks, it was too soon. This other one, went by _Oni._ Fat, three-armed oaf. Muscle, weights, big guns. Loud and distracting. Once the shots went off, they’d need as much sound and thunder as possible, and that’s about all Oni could bring.

“My money’s on lung cancer,” Spade challenged again, smirking. “Fuck sake, how do you smoke that garbage? Figure you at least get some of that south-side brown sugar.”

Oni chortled. “He don’t. Got no lungs.”

Again, they both laughed. Idiots. But they were useful idiots, and, Spade had limited resources. Hard to sell “reputation” to would-be thieves around these parts.

“Blegh,” Spade spat. “Gonna’ drown it out. Scuse’ me.”

In truth, he just needed a moment to himself, the last he’d arguably have for a while. Possibly forever. He went to the disgusting fridge and yanked out a not-moldy bottle of watered-down beer, guzzling it fast. It didn’t do much to blanket the flavor of bad demon-tobacco, but whatever. One more, on the house, cause after this it was either whores and wine or. . . well, nothing.

As he sipped the piss-flavored beer, a voice caught him. “Hey dog, when we goin’?”

 _I don’t know, you dumb fucking blob,_ he thought. “We wait for the call. That’s all I know, just like I told you.”

He returned to the duo, sitting opposite of them, hiding his annoyance. They appeared amused all the same.

Sicario leaned to Oni, chattering something in whispers. Oni gurgled with laughter, pointing at Spade.

“Ooooh, hey. Hey. Dog. Is it true? Can you lick your own balls?”

Sicario utterly hissed with snickers.

Spade thought he might shoot them both here and now, but, their humor was necessary. He decided, for now, to settle on encouragement.

“I’ll tell you after the job.”

Yeah. After. Spade leaned back and tried to focus on that. Think about himself, utterly stinking with cash. Or whatever was in the vault. He was gonna’ get every gun he owned emblazoned with gold engravings, and buy diamond collars, and put those collars on a bunch of big-titted bitches, and fuck em. Then fuck the guys. Then the girls. _At the same time._ And then drink himself so drunk he’d piss wine.

Almost time. Almost time. Almost time.

-*-

Smash the door, find the floor, break the vault.

Over and over and over the sequence repeats in your head. You see it with clarity and precision, like it’s happened already. But every time you think it through, you find some flaw, some tiny error in execution, so you do it again. Because you can’t be good, you must be _perfect._ And even then, perfection isn’t good enough. So, over and over and over again you think it through. Smash the door, find the floor, break the vault.

There is no more waiting, no more time to plan. It’s now or never. The gang feuds are consuming Pentagram City – sections of Hell are getting torn apart in service of new masters. Some small, some big. The larger names like Cherri Bomb and Sir Pentious are hastening their efforts with greater acts of violence and destruction. The Purge is coming, the underworld is changing. This plan is your art, your first masterpiece, but it’s easily derailed by the chaos of others. If you don’t proceed, you’re another obscure, no-name grunt. You are Anon: Master Thief. This is your plan.

You look yourself over one more time. A protective vest rests under your suit. You’re strapped with a suppressed – albeit demon-tainted – 1911 pistol. You have a few essentials for disarmament like flashbangs. The heavy artillery though, that’s your crew. They have the charges and the vault-breaker, a device super charged with one of Sir Pentious’ engines capable of emitting a precision later which will cut metal like flesh. If all goes well, the ensuing confusion and fear will scatter the casino patrons, giving you ample time to break the vault. Twenty minutes at most, fifteen with perfect execution.

You slip on your gloves. A thrilling wave of excited anxiety rushes through you. The good kind. A fool doesn’t feel it, a fool doesn’t have fear. You have fear, and you need it to survive. All that’s left is the call. Once you make it, your crew will meet you a block down, and the rest is left to execution.

You stare at the burner. It is, for a moment, the most frightening object you’ve ever seen. You reach over to pick it up and. . .

Something knocks at your door. Out of instinct, your hand finds your gun, and you’re ready to shoot. Paranoia consumes you, because everything is an enemy until the job is done. Before you ask who it is, however, the frame swings open.

Angel Dust swaggers in, expression defiant. God dammit. You sigh, but you’re not relieved. He’s. . . not who you want to see before all this. Sentimentality is poison before a job.

“Wow, look at you,” he says, arms behind him. “All dressed for school.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” you say quickly. He’s not deterred, strutting to you.

“Shut up, asshole.”

He looks you over. There’s something heavy about his gaze. It carries a mournful weight. Where his features are often stretched with a toothy grin, scent of perfume and whiskey drifting from him, here, he just looks _different_.

His black sclera eye trails over you, foot to head. Then, his hands wander to your chest, fishing with your suit. He fiddles with your pockets, looking at your piece, your explosives, grumbling as he does. You don’t stop him.

“Not bad, I guess.”

You start to say something, but his finger comes to your lips. “Shh.”

From his back, he twiddles a knife in practiced fashion. It’s got a point like a needle, the handle embroidered with fancy roses and a pink name: _Heartthrob_. He takes your hand, pressing the weapon into your palm.

“I knicked a scumbag with this. First time I ever did. Hit that fucker straight through the eye. He looked like an edgy _Metallica_ cover after I got done with em’.” Usually he’d laugh after something like this, but he doesn’t. He can’t.

He stares at you. “No knife. Amateur mistake. And _you’re_ s’posed to be the smart one?”

You don’t say anything. The point retracts and you slowly place it in your inner suit pocket. You want to thank him, but he presses on, rushing. Like this encounter is killing him. In a way, it’s killing you.

“I gotta’ meet my gal pal in a bit,” says Angel, gesturing behind him. “Ya’ know. Old friends, old favors.”

He clears his throat. “Ah, so you ah. You know.” He rubs a hand through the puff on his head. He breathes, tapping a kinky-boot on the floor, looking at the wall where your scrawl of plans are.

“Don’t uh. Don’t fuck up, pockets.”

You nod. “I won’t.”

His eyes snap back to you. Then, he throws himself forward, embracing you. His lips, like a sweet toxin, meet yours. They’re warm, wet, and so fucking soft. He kisses you, catching you off guard, but you return it as hot and heavy as he brings it. Then, just as fast, he breaks it, and he wears an annoyed expression. His hands grip your shoulders, and his eyes are narrowed with a tearful fury.

_“Don’t you fucking die you absolute piece of shit, or I’ll bring ya’ back to life myself and **kill you.** ”_

His tone is not angry. It’s pleading. Silence forms between you, and you try to find the right words, the kind to reassure him.

“Angel. . .”

He sniffs, turning. “Fuck, uh. Fuck off. I gotta’ go. I’ll see ya’ around.”

He trots off, hand over mouth, slipping past your door. The quiet returns, and something else. Is this what you want to do? Are you sure? There’s no turning back. You can wait here, you know. You can call it all off. You can pick up that phone and cancel it all and stop this. Redeem yourself. With Angel. With everyone.

Are you sure? If you do this, there’s no going back.

. . .

You look at the phone and grab it, auto-dialing the number. It rings once. A familiar voice crackles through. “Yeah?”

. . .

“It’s time.”

No going back.

-*-

A van rolls up by the curb, benign. It’s plain, a white thing, like an old junker. The demons on the sidewalk pay it no mind, like they pay _you_ no mind. They probably figure you for a well-dressed bum. You are, after all, just standing there, with seemingly nothing to say. You are a ghost. Your name is unknown. By the end of this, they will know it.

You step in, strapping into the moldy passenger seat. For the first time, you’re in proximity to Spade and the crew. He shifts gears and gets moving instantly, eyes focused.

“All right boys grab your nuts, no fucking going back now!” he says, speeding into traffic. Lights dance over his canid features, and you realize he’s like a smoke colored Doberman wearing a cheap green suit. The others in the spacious back snicker. Oni gurgles with laughter.

“He ain’t got em’ no more,” says the crimson behemoth, pointing to Sicario.

The skeleton cackles.

You glance back. They’re not what you expected. Last time you got together with a crew it was just men in suits, or so you recall. Will this work? Will they do their job? Fuck, this is no time for second guessing. In the meantime, the van powers through the roads. It might look simple, but it’s reinforced with a stronger engine and plating. It’ll need it.

“Finally decided to join the dance floor, eh boss man?” says Spade, tossing you a glance. You manage a smirk.

“I have to make sure the job goes right.”

Spade laughs. “Hope you’re more than just talk you egotistical prick.”

A boney hand appears between you and Spade, carrying an awful stench. Spade makes a face. “Ugh, fuck off with that garbage!”

The bones rattle with more laughter, but Spade isn’t convinced. “Don’t smoke that. Who the hell trusts a skeleton with a cig?”

While the trio rambles, the silhouettes of the city rise, imposing towers looming over you. The _Sugary Chigurh_ isn’t far off, beacon of desire and hope. You, like so many others, are there to gamble, but with very, very different stakes. As the van draws closer, other cars start filling the roads, forcing Spade to slow, though he isn’t deterred.

“You sure we won’t die in the collision?” you ask.

The plan is both complex and simple. It requires fear and fury, to generate as much confusion as possible so you can get to the vault with little trouble. Part of that requires ramming the vehicle straight into the teeth of the Chigurh – or in other words, right through the front. The van is reinforced to make this easier, or at least, that’s the idea. Once in, you’ll get to the base floor and find the wall – the wall hiding the vault. Pentious’ charges will ideally make quick work of it, and then all that’s left is breaking in. As for what’s inside, oddly, you don’t care as much. It is the act that matters most.

Spade shrugs. “Nope. Wanted something bigger than a van but, hey, that’s what budget thugs get ya.”

“Hmm.”

Well, if it doesn’t work, at least you won’t live long enough to see your failure.

Spade accelerates, despite the congestion. Minutes later, the Sugary Chigurh breaks into view, an imposing middle-finger of flashing neon lights overseeing a wide, a large, wide building. Its guts are filled with demons looking to make a quick cash-in, littered with loud machines and laughing fools. In it flows the blood of every pocket in Pentagram City, stomach bloated with riches beyond anyone’s dreams. As is the belief, anyway.

You’re gonna’ tear it open.

Spade finally stops. The casino lies ahead, crowds rolling in and out of its front. It taunts you with its size and the promises within. Like you, the crew is quiet. A bead of sweat rolls down your brow. You clutch your gun. You see Spade stare. Oni gets his own weapon ready, a massive minigun only something as large as him can carry. Sicario makes an inverted sign of the cross, muttering prayers in his native tongue. The air is so thick with silence the ambiance of the city penetrates the van. You all know. It’s now or never.

Without looking at Spade, you speak.

[“Go.”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qFfybn_W8Ak)

Spade growls and shifts the van into gear, slamming the gas as the machine-beast screeches to life. It’s banshee wail pierces the night air and sends you all bolting forth. The reinforced death machine barrels into action, rocketing towards the casino. It busts through the gates like snapping twigs, and only a few realize what’s happening. Crowds scream, dashing to the side, demon swears erupting around you. Soon, the vehicle shakes with violent rattles as it rolls across curbs and steps and stone. Some don’t move in time, some are run over, leaving a bloody mess. The straps to your seat barely hold you, sending you into controlled contortions as the glass doors grow closer.

Spade roars, challenging any obstacle before him. The van smashes through the glass, but it doesn’t slow the vehicle.

“Fuck you! FUCK YOU! COME ON!”

The dog’s hit bloodlust, gripping the wheel like he might choke it. You raise your arm over your head, a blur of colors, demons, and machines flying past you. Sparks of electricity burst from where the vehicle unhinges machines, leaving a trail of absolute carnage behind it. Oni hugs himself to remain still and Sicario is thrown around like a bag of bones, swearing as he’s tossed like a ragdoll.

It’s almost impossible to make out where you are, and that’s not good. The vault is beneath, the hidden floor, and you need to find the right spot to get there.

“Center! Goddammit! _Get to the center_!”

Spade says nothing, just grunts, as he tears the wheel left. The “center” is an open space between all the machines and avenues of the casino, where one seeks their next den of debauchery. The van screeches to it, leaving marks in the burnt carpet, before finally stopping. By this point, Spade is heaving, frame shaking with hot adrenalin.

“OUT! Everyone OUT! DO YOUR JOBS!” you scream. You kick your way out of the van. Sicario collects himself (literally), and Oni bursts through the back, carrying the heavy equipment and his weapon. Spade howls in triumph as he gets out too, carrying an AK-50, snapping his eyes around, ears alert.

Devastation surrounds you. A long trail of skid marks and fire leads from the van to the casino’s entry point. You can hear distant screams and panicked cries, along with the surreal tempo of lottery machines – some still working, others not so much. Usually this place is swarming with gamblers, drunks, and guards, but they’ve scattered. A few random bodies are getting away, but you pay them no mind. There’s no retaliation, not even police sirens – because down here, they don’t exist.

An eerie peace forms– here at the eye of the storm. Sicario follows behind you, unfolding the stock to his painted, worn down _Dragunov_ , while Oni straps the round belt into its feeding mechanism. They’re preparing for war; the other soldiers haven’t shown up yet.

“We ain’t got much time before the gangs catch on,” commented Spade, keeping an eye on the balconies above. “Hope this little device of yours is fast.”

You don’t know, but one step of your plan already succeeded. “We won’t need it,” you say, grabbing your bag of charges.

“You two,” you say, unzipping the satchel while gesturing to Sicario and Oni. “You’re the cover. Oni, you have the machine, you’re with me until we break open the vault. Sicario, find a spot and keep your eyes on the front. _Anyone_ tries to get through you fuckin’ smoke em.”

“Peh,” grunted Oni. “He gets the fun part.”

Sicario snickered, looking up. With terrifying agility, the skeletal contraption leaped to one of the building pillars and crawled along it, seeking a birdnest to take aim from. Perfect. He’d make any fool think twice before sticking their head into the casino.

As for you, you start to set the charges – they’re strange, egg-shaped things pulsing with pink energy and rimmed with gold. Lacking in subtly or practicality, but Pentious’ tech is full of destructive power, the kind you need. You set them in a neat circle around the entry point, center of the casino. It’s not a wide circle, but as your ill-gotten blueprints showed, the vault is below. Getting to it requires access to stairs or elevators hidden away and you don’t have time for that. Besides, blowing shit up is so, _so_ much more fun.

As you do, you can hear the far-off screech of vehicles and echo of voices. Sounds like company.

“You wanna’ hustle there, boss man?” barks Spade.

You ignore him, setting your last charge. “Shut up and find somewhere to take cover,” you command over your shoulder.

“Uhhh. . .” Oni seems to notice people running through the van’s tunnel of destruction. “Ey’! Fuck off!”

A nasty, dreadful whine pierces the air as Oni revs up his gun. Whoever he’s yelling at apparently isn’t listening, because he tugs the trigger and a _line_ of hot, unforgiving bullets spew from its rotating barrels. The sound cracks the air and makes your ears ring as the rounds obliterate whatever it was in their way. Shrill cracks emit in the distance, points where the rounds made contact, coupled with horrified screams.

“Heheh,” Oni chortles. “Oughta’ slow em’ down.”

 All time is precious now. You meet Spade at the van, taking impromptu cover. You fish through your inner pockets, fingers tracing over the handle of a knife, then a detonator. When you pull it free, Spade stares at it expectedly.

“This better not blow us to smithereens, genius.”

You force a smile. “Probably will.”

You and Spade cover your faces, while Oni keeps firing off shots, laughing. You breathe. You engage the switch.

One after the other, the explosives detonate, controlled bursts of hot, pink energy tearing apart the air as the vomit in a pillar of fire, light, and electricity. The ground beneath groans in agony, vibrations shaking you to your heart. Even Oni stumbles, while dust, money, and machines fall from upper balconies, taxed by the explosive aggression. A nightmare of fireworks fills the center of the casino, creating fat clouds of dirty smoke, flames finding purchase in the fragile carpet. It’s so loud you can’t even hear Spade’s spree of unrelenting swears.

But it’s only the start. As the bursts settle, the floor rumbles. Somewhere, metal supports are losing integrity. The ground cracks beneath you, splintered, chaotic veins sprawling like veins. Then, another torrent of cracks fills the air. The floor breaks, bit by bit, like chunks of flesh. With nothing to keep the floor in place, they quiver. They give way, vomiting up more plumes of filth, creating a massive hole, your key to the riches below.

“The hell was all that?” Oni calls, glancing behind. You don’t answer immediately.

Spade hacks and coughs, waving his hand to clear the air. “Shittingcockfuck I can’t see!”

But you can. There, like a stomach torn open, is your entrance to the hidden floor. Below the opening, another hallway is visible through the dusty debris. You also hear voices. Shit. Well, no surprise it’s populated, most likely by guards. Fine. Your body is vibrating with adrenalin – time to ice some fuckers.

As the filth settles, you point to the impromptu opening. “We’re going through that. Get ready.”

“Oni!” you shout. “Get over here!”

The three-armed demon frowns. “Aww, was just getting fun.” He marches toward you, while Spade checks his rifle.

He grabs you. “If I die. . .”

You look at him. “Fuck you,” he finishes. You laugh.

You’re first through the portal. No turning back. Spade comes through and then Oni, rumbling the ground with his landfall. Above, you hear a crack from Sicario’s rifle shots, suppressing the outside. Now or never.

The hall you find yourself in is uncanny because it looks like the corridor of a ritzy home. The walls are lined with fine paintings and there are lewd statues adorning its sides, accompanied by statues and other mob fineries. But far, far ahead, there’s a large space, an opening hosting a gigantic door, and you can see it: _The vault._

Figures are in your way, demons in suits. The last vestiges of protection, the remnants of the gangs. You jump behind cover as a few shots head your way. Spade does the same, though Oni doesn’t care.

“Shit, what now?” Spade barks. You laugh again. Is it not obvious?

[“Kill them all.”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wy9r2qeouiQ)

They need nothing else. Oni revved up his weapon once again, making a slow approach while the minigun belched scorching lead into its opposition. Spade rolled up right behind him, taking crouch cover and squeezing out shots when afforded the opportunity. You do the same but aim carefully. A suppressed 1911 isn’t much for extended fights, but, it’s fun to bring your enemies a stylish death. One of your shots finds itself nestling into the eye of a green-skinned demon, felling him. At least for a moment. The beasts ahead aren’t the usual chaff, they’re clearly the kind ready for firefights. Well, fuck em’ all anyway.

The three of you rush forward. Oni takes shot after shot. His arm tears open with streams of blood as return far splinters his skin though he cares little, laughing. Spade is far more cautious, aiming with precision. He clips a few guards in the legs, splintering one of their kneecaps. As the grunt howls in pain, Oni finishes him, turning the body into a chunky pile of crimson soup.

You’re getting closer. You toss a banger into the crowd, a hideous flash emitting and blinding a few. Gives you enough time to fire off a mag into one of the fiend’s chests. That’s enough to kill it, but goddamn they’re tough.

“Shit!” one of them roars. “Call him! Call Mac-”

Whatever one demon planned to say was cut off, by, well, having his head cut off. Spade’s rifle sends enough ugly lead to split the dome right down the middle. Closer, closer, closer.

Finally, you’re at the massive room. Around you are piles of massive corpses, save for one. He’s been hit by everyone’s shots, and he still won’t give. His frame is adorned with a hundred different wounds, one of his arms turned into chunks. The other is split in two, hanging on by threads of vein and flesh. He stomps toward, howling with hate.

The three of you drain your guns into him, until his torso is, well, _gone._ It stinks with smoke and death, the remaining legs collapsing to the ground. Oni is enraptured, fat gut jiggling from laughter, while Spade is soaking in breaths, wiping his head. You glance at yourself. Nothing. Admittedly, you’re astonished. Death was so close, but you skirted it again.

You can still make out the snap of gunfire. Sicario is keeping more thugs at bay, so the clock was ticking. You glance at Oni.

“Get it out. _Now.”_

Oni blinks, remembering what he was here for. He kicks aside a few gooey limbs, setting down the massive bag strapped to his back. It sits on the cold floor with a loud _thud_ while he unfastens it. In a few moments, the key to your victory is revealed.

It’s an unusual thing, and at first glance, nothing interesting. A skeletal frame of metal holds together what looks like a missile stripped of its casing, an amalgamation of wires, bolts, and components. However, in its abdomen hums the heart needed to make it work: the engine. Ripped from Pentious’ warehouse, it will provide all the strength required to cut through the vault's barrier, or so you hope.

You’re beside yourself with intoxicating bliss. You glance them, to the vault, the last of your opposition, the final foe. It’s nothing strange, nor enigmatic. A massive steel door emblazoned with various names, perhaps the call-signs of different gang lords who deposit their wealth within it.

Spade flicks his eyes between you and the machine. “Well?”

You smile. A _real_ smile. “Give me a sec. Want to. . . enjoy this.”

Coming to the machine, you dial in a code on its keypad, forcing the behemoth to life. Oni places it directly in front of the vault, where the proceeding energy can start working.

You haven’t felt this good since your cock was buried in Angel’s throat.

-*-

 _Pop._ Sicario snickered. _Bang._ He cackled.

Too easy. Way too easy. This was gonna’ be the best payout of his miserable life! Because every fucking fool from every corner of Pentagram City was trying to break into the burning casino straight through the entrance. Right into his damn scope. Every silhouette emerging earned themselves a round in the skull. Best part? His ribcage was _flowing_ with spare mags. He could keep this up all night!

Damn. All he needed was a chica with a fat ass and a good ol’ bootleg _pulque._ Shootin’ hadn’t been this good since he brained all those _Kiowa_ kids. And he was gonna have skyscrapers of cash if Oni’s mumbling was anything to go by after all was said and done. All he got for wasting Comanche injuns was a slap on the back and a gold coin of "appreciation." Fuckers.

 _Crack._ Another one dead. Hey, well, some tried getting clever. On the balconies, through the glass roof, a few demons attempted jumping in. But thing is, these weren’t trained professionals, so they had no idea how to make the decline safely. More easy shots.

Oooh if he still had lungs, he’d wheeze himself to another early grave. Was it this easy, was it _really_ this easy? The things he heard about the casino, one might think this stash of everyone’s cash might have, dunno, some fucking tanks or something? Idiots. Or maybe they were so damn arrogant they owners assumed _nobody_ would pull a robbery, not like this anyway. Hah. Too bad he never met his team of _bastardos_ in life, they’d do some damn fine jobs. Well, if he had lived past 100, anyway, haha!

One more. _POW._ Another body on the ground, limp. They were in piles now. This was getting ridiculous. He popped his empty magazine and rummaged with his ribcage for another.

“Wow, nice shot.”

Siciario _JUMPED_ and yanked a knife from his side, swinging it. WHAT THE FUCK!

He missed. Staring at him was a smiling _thing_. Eyes stared at him, bulging pockets of unblinking scarlet, placed within a frame of ash white fur. Canisters of hazardous chemicals were strapped around her, and she smelled of blight. Poison, medicinal, unforgiving death. Sicario scrambled backward, reaching for a pistol, but the thing, the rabbit, hopped forward, hand striking out to touch him.

“Oh, no no no, none of that.”

She was so small, she couldn’t overpower him! He shook her off!

He. . . shook her off? His arm came up, but only _half_ of it. The rest was burning away, vaporizing into a cloud of chemical dust. Sicario tried to crawl back, put some space between himself and this abomination but. . .

She laughed, jamming one of her cannisters into his ribs. Before he could reach to stop her, stop _it_ , the device burst in a cloud of white, sparkling fog. His bones hissed, the mechanical bits in his frame creaked and screamed, bubbling with oil. Violent convulsions shook him, thick, black ooze seeping from his sockets.

Sarin watched him. No flesh, but a fascinating result all the same. Then, her eyes drifted to the casino ground, where a hole smoldered, stinking of death and fire. Her heart sang.

“Oh, mister thief, there you are.”

-*-

“YES!”

Lay low the folly of the lords of hell. The vault was no match for you. No match for your scheming and planning and ingenuity. All those weeks, all that time spent preparing. Now. Now it came to fruition. The device you hijacked had burned a hole through the slab of protective metal, using a stream of pink energy. It ate through all the inner mechanisms and fat locks, until, much like the floor, the drill inflicted upon it a cavernous wound. Once finished, you switched the machine off, only to hear the sweet, blissful sound of a creaking, clicking vault door opening.

Spade put a hand on his head. “Holy shit.”

Oni stared. “Wow.”

Slowly, the barrier of steel drifted ajar. Its contents were exposed to you. Spade cackled.

“Holy SHIT! We did it! WE FUCKING DID IT!”

He rushed inside. Oni started to erupt and gurgle with laughter, giddy as a schoolboy. He rushed in as well, shaking the ground. You, on the other hand, absorbed the afterglow of your work. No one could do this but you. How long had this vault remained untouched? Closed? Not anymore. And, you no longer heard Sicaro’s gunshots – meaning the efforts to thwart you were successfully repelled. Perfect. Just too perfect.

You breathe and exhale. Now,  _this_ was a high. You laughed too, how could you not? Next time you saw Angel Dust you’d drown him in cash. You’d make a church out of stolen wealth.

It was time to pluck through your efforts. You went into the vault. Immediately, tables and glass containers and mountains of riches met your gaze. Lockboxes with pentagram symbols lined your surroundings, accompanied by chests and cases and containers of artifacts, gems, gold, weapons, and fineries beyond your wildest dreams.

You walked past them, navigating through hallways of belongings dating back to Devil knew when. The origin of this city? Incredible. So too were tables carrying immeasurable levels of cash, the kind that could literally kill you if it fell on you at once. Spade and Oni were helping themselves already, cracking boxes and stuffing bags full of everything they could get their fingers on.

Spade was drunk with glee. He looked at you, canid jaw stretched with a grin. “At haha, hah, at this fucking rate, I could fuck the devil’s wife, haahhahaha!”

You smirked. You recognized that face, that sensation. An emotion of endless power, like you could control the world. You, however, weren’t quite as interested. Hell would know your name, that was the goal.

“Shit,” Spade continued, “Need more bags!”

He started to leave. “Hey, wait up!” Oni went with him, hopping up through the hole.

You, in the meantime, continued wandering through the vault. It was massive in size. How was _this_ lurking under the feet of the Sugary Chigurh? And for how long? Then again, whoever thought to rob a casino? The house always wins, after all. Until today, that is. As you continued, the towers of boxes and piles of cash started to fade. You reached what appeared to be the end of the vault, where plain white walls met plain white light. Nothing was here. Except. . .

“What?”

You saw something. Not a chest, not a lockbox, not gold, not a statue. It was something which did not belong in a vault, clearly. Before you, of massive size, was a glass fixture. A gigantic cylinder, like a container, its head crowned with a series of tubes and pulsing wires, feeding life into. . . into what? You walked closer, and the size of it grew more and more apparent. Next to the gigantic tube-like thing, you were a dwarf. Within it was a viscous, milky substance, flowing and writhing. A fluid?

Closer still. No. No not a fluid. Something was _inside of it._ You squinted, peering up. A shape started to form, appear through the material. A body.

Was it? It had to be. No. Yes?

If it was a body, it was the farthest thing from what it attempted to imitate. It was a contraption of flesh, broken and twisted and squirming in all the wrong ways. Parts of its soured skin were splayed open with rivers of frozen organs twisted with them. Its torso appeared smashed and refastened together. From its bulbous gut, blisters and diseased skin gave way to snaking entrails which leaked from its frame. In short, an utterly repulsive thing, taller than five men easily. It possessed no head, and bizarre, black growths sprouted from its chest and neck opening. The question was, what the _fuck_ was it and why was it here, in this vault?

Your sense of excitement was draining just looking at it. Vile. Perhaps the remains of some dead enemy kept as a trophy. You shook your head, turning away.

_Let me out._

You froze. A voice slithered into you.

_Let me out._

You spun around, gazing up. It did not move.

_Let me out._

You did _no_ such thing. You've seen all sorts of oddities and abominations down here, but this one is  _wrong_ in all the worst possible ways. It possessed an evil magnificence, this you were certain of, and unlike the galavanting cartoonish freaks populating the veins of Pentagram City, the entity was nothing like them. 

 _Fuck_ all of that _._ You got as far away from it as you could, rushing away. Back to embracing your conquest and newfound wealth. Whatever _that_ abomination was could remain and rot for the rest of its days.

As you returned to the entrance of the vault, you didn’t see Oni or Spade. Idiots were taking too bloody long. You didn’t hear them – in fact, you didn’t hear _anything._ Leave it to a bunch of cheap hires to not understand the severity of the situation. Fools were probably getting wasted off their ass in premature celebration. Until something caught your attention.

Distant gunshots. You blinked.

“Hey!” you called out. “Get back here! We’ve got things to steal!”

Your voice is full of eager hope. What are they doing? Don’t they know they’re missing out? You sighed, exasperated. The adrenalin is wearing off, and you’re ready to put this heist to bed. Too much time has already gone to waste and you needed to make your escape. The rest of the wealth was open to the vultures of the city, and they wouldn't wait at the doors forever.

Nothing. “For _fuck_ sake.”

You climb through the makeshift tear, grunting as you return to the wartorn floor, looking around. There are _piles_ of bodies near the entry point from goons trying to retake control of the casino. Yet, still, the only sounds are the dismal, deformed chirps of broken machines mixed with the cracking hum of fire.

“Spade,” you call out, pulling out your gun. You were in _no_ mood for games. “Get the fuck out here. _Now.”_

No response. Realization started to take hold of you. You crept on, near the van, seeking your partners, but also looking for a threat. As you did, you hear a _squish,_ and looking down, you’ve stepped in some foul trail of bloody muck. Your eyes follow the river of tainted crimson until it reaches another hill of crim-

SHIT. It’s Oni. Or it _was_ Oni. His fat, heavy form twitches, but his torso has broken open and he’s. . . melted. You look away. The stench is revolting and you have to stop yourself from gagging. Fucking fucking fuck. He’s dead. Who killed him? Spade? No, why? Spade would never. Idiot dog had too much loyalty in him, and, whatever felled Oni wasn’t a bullet.

“Spade!” you call out again, this time pleading. Your gaze snaps in directionless fear, looking for danger. In your peripheral, something catches your attention. Something white.

You attempt to hide, but it's too late, because the  _being_ of ashen hue pounces, staring you down. It smiles.

_“It’s so nice to finally meet you.”_

Your gaze falls over the tiny figure - in comparison to the behemoth you encountered in the vault she's practically an ant. Features like a rabbit, with unforgiving, unblinking scarlet eyes. She’s wearing a variety of straps, all holding what appear to be explosives. Her features are cracked with a grin, and she’s salivating, twitching, like she’s in the presence of her obsession.

You are _not_ about to engage this thing in small talk. It doesn’t take a genius to put things together. You take aim, faster than you’ve ever moved in your life and un-life, but the moment you do she giggles, exploding in a cloud of sparkling vapor. You barely make out her vanishing red eyes as plumes of fog blur your vision. Worse. It _hurts._ You hack and cough, the smoke stinging your skin, burning your lungs. No, no not _smoke,_ that’s poison.

She can’t have gotten far, so you decide to toss one of your own little presents. You lob another flashbang in her general direction, hiding from the burst of hot light. You don’t know if you got her, but aren’t sticking around to find out. You rush to the van, aiming to make your escape. Fuck. Spade! Where is Spade!? You stare at the driver’s door. You can get away – the keys are there, there’s no reason to be stupid and try to save a dumb fucking dog demon. Fuck.

Your breathing hastens, and you look around the van. You want to call out for Spade, but you can’t reveal yourself.

“That was silly!” Too late.

You rear to your left and the hopping horror was above you. She tosses a series of containers your way and you _get the fuck away from that._ They explode, engulfing that part of the casino in more toxic cloud. You cover your mouth, for all the good that’s doing you, but even still, your lungs are starting to hurt. Shit. The longer you stay, the worse this gets.

You spin, taking aim, firing off a few rounds in her direction. It just makes her laugh more, and she’s gone, vanishing into the safety of her death vapor. You curse, rushing behind one of the lottery machines, trying to think. God dammit, where is he!?

As you peer over the broken device, more clouds materialize, but they’re not aimed at you. What? Oh shit. Realization hits you. She’s filling the floor with poison. She’s just _toying_ with you. in a few moments, the whole casino would be nothing but an atmosphere of death. Fuckity fuck fuck.

“Spade! Spade godammit where are you!?”

You can’t stay much longer. You can’t die for this.

“Anon!”

Your ears catch. Spade! His voice is far off, like an echo, but you find its direction – he’s in the hole! Did he rush back there? Was he trying to hide? Whatever, doesn’t matter. You try to hone in on the mutant rabbit, preparing to rush, but you can’t see her. Fuck. _She’s_ hiding. Well, it’s now or never – you either break for Spade now or you leave him to die.

You break for Spade. You dash for the makeshift opening, coughing, the air filling with caustic chemicals. You can hear that _thing_ giggling in the background, filling you with rage, and you want so badly to drive a round into her head but there’s no time, no chance. When you reach the hole, you call down it.

“Anon!?” Spade appears into your view. He’s coughing too, but unharmed. You reach for him.

“Get up here you fucking idiot! Let’s GO!”

Don’t have to tell him twice. He reaches for you, and you grab his palm, yanking him to the top floor, practically throwing him.

“Get the van!” you manage to say. Spade limps to his feet, but nods. His eyes are full of terror and questions. Who was that? How’d she get here? If you both lived, you’d figure it out later.

Spade bolted for the vehicle while you got back on your feet. All right, just need to get through this, he’s right there, the van is right there, you can escape, you can leave, you can go home, you can see Angel, you can see the Hotel, you can go ho-

Red eyes coalesce in your vision. Sarin drops down on you, sending you to your back with a painful thud. She jams something into your left arm and it SCREAMS in agony, every nerve screeching as white-hot pain erupts through your limb. At once, your flesh hisses, bursting in a sequence of bloody fissures, gurgling with bubbling skin and irritated pus.

“Agh! AGH AAGGGHGH!”

Your lungs are on _fire._ Your throat is an inferno. The poison seeps into your bones, eating you. you’re losing sight in one eye, your body twitches, your face is cracking. It’s hard to breathe. Sarin is watching you, her grin never fading.

Somewhere, some part of you, some remaining nerve of instinct wills your other arm into your pocket. You yank out the only weapon you have left, the knife. The point flicks to life and you _drive that fucking needle of metal straight into this thing’s head._

Her skull blossoms with red, and her grin fades.

“H-huh?”

She topples off you, expression twisted, confused. Her hands touch the handle of _Hearthrob,_ like it’s an anomaly, an alien presence.

“But. . .” Her crimson eye blackens, filling with blood. The other tries to observe the needle, but can’t. Slowly, she stumbles, backward, falling into the pit, the hole.

You want to smile but you can’t. You try to see yourself. Flesh is _dripping off_ your left arm. You can’t feel it. It’s dying. You’re dying.

You need Spade. Spaaaaaade. Spsdffsdf. . .

Darkness is taking yfhfhfewlff. . .

Yfjf canfnfs brrthfhf. . .

_Help._

_Help._

_Hfhoef._

_. . ._

_. . ._

The last thing you see is the head of a dog as he snags your body, dragging it to the van.

-*-

Dark. Dark. Fading in and out. A blackness swallows you. everything is fire. Your body screams. Splinters of hot, uncompromising agony consume you, like a saw made of magma is cutting through every nerve of every molecule in your flesh.

. . .

You open your eyes. You’re in something. It’s moving, rumbling. A voice is yelling through it. A shape at the front, at the driver’s seat. You cough blood, you cough melted lung.

. . .

Dark.

. . .

Flashes of dismal light pour through the glass. The glass? In an out you fade, like a phantom visiting the mortal plain. You're moving, you're floating. This is the river, you think, where are all dying souls go to make their final passage. Not to hell, not to heaven, but to oblivion. Once you go, there's nothing left, you'll simply  _cease._ The poison seeps into your veins, wriggling into your mind, promising a quick, final death, and you think that's not so bad. You think you can go in peace.

. . .

A structure appears. It’s raining, and you’re at the corner of a street with buildings you can’t recognize or can’t understand, but you know they exist. In front of you, though, is the place of focus, a broken neon sign hanging above it with promises of warmth and safety. The rain hurts – it’s so cold it feels like tiny, hot needles. You look down at yourself, free of wounds and pain and everything else. You're fine. You go inside then, eager to escape the cold.

It’s a bar. Empty, but filled with pleasant music, the welcoming scent of expensive cigars, the laughter of old friends. Old friends?

You move further in. There’s a table at the corner, populated by three men, all laughing, drinking, cards in front of them. You’re drawn to them. You can recognize them, and you know their names, and yet, you don’t. You walk closer, and they notice you, gazes shifting. They’re all smiling, and they stop what they’re doing, waiting. They speak no words, they just wait, and you notice at their table, there’s a single empty chair.

You stare at it. You feel as though if you sit down with them, you’ll be happier than you’ve ever been. And you also realize, you’ll always be there. No going back.

. . .

. . .

You step back. They continue smiling, but return to their game.

. . .

. . .

You open your eyes. You hear something.

“. . . I'm bringing him. . .!”

Darkness.

-*-

Spade almost crashed the van, slamming the breaks as the vehicular beast swerved into the ornate gate of the Hotel. Sweat dampened his fur, so much he had to take off his green suit top. As the vehicle quieted, he rushed to its back, tearing the doors open and grabbing the sputtering silhouette within. He tried not to panic, but fear pierced his heart when he saw. . .

“Come on, come on, goddammit!”

The hacking, dying frame didn’t move, so he pulled it out, supporting it as he dragged Anon to the entrance of the Happy Hotel. He smashed his hand on the front, looking behind him like that _thing_ would appear again.

“OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR BEFORE I BREAK IT OPEN!”

A moment later, the ornate frame swung up and peering through was who he wanted to see, and at the same time, didn’t.

“Oh my,” the warm, static-laced voice said. “He looks like he’s just out of the trenches, the dear boy!”

Fuck that grin, fuck that carefully crafted scarlet hairstyle and those dead, terrifying eyes. Fuck those glasses and that expensive suit. Fuck Alastor.

Alastor gestured. “Well, do come in, let’s see if we can’t jimmy-rig this fella’ back to a ripe old boot clicker, eh?”

How the Radio Demon could act with such comedic indifference baffled Spade, but now, he was his only hope. _Again._ So, he followed the suited fiend past a series of halls, until they reached a spacious room where a table coated with white cloth stood. Next to it, a collection of syringes and metal tools, the kind you didn’t want to see.

Alastor turned, patting the table. “On this, if you please! Had to toss it all together like a three-player Jenga tower, ho ho!”

Spade hesitated. “What are you gonna’ do to him?”

Alastor chuckled, retrieving a surgeon’s gown, wrapping it around himself. “Save his life, I believe it was?”

Spade glanced to Anon. He wasn’t breathing, he wasn’t moving. He was limp. In a panic, Spade rushed over, tossing the unmoving body on the table, while Alastor soaked his utensils in something that stank of cleansing chemical. It made him sick, especially after what he just experienced.

Alastor clicked his tongue. “Anon, Anon, look at the trouble you’ve gotten into. I believe that’s why they say to stay away from the drugs, ho ho ho.”

Spade wanted to _choke_ him. Was this a fucking game!? But something else caught him – how did he know Anon?

Alastor seemed to hear the query. He turned, maintaining that horrid, dreadful grin. “Oh, didn’t you know? He’s the latest project in Miss Magne’s resolution to fix all the little naughty Nancies of Hell. I see she has her work _cut_ out for her.”

He said this, retrieving a scalpel, pressing it against Anon’s left arm. Or what remained of it.

“Can you fix him?” Spade said, pleading.

Alastor’s voice went low. “Spend enough time ripping bodies to bits and you learn a few things. Come back in an hour. I’ll have the ol’ boy looking like he’s fresh off the Styx!”

The dog didn’t want to leave, but the moment the knife hit Anon’s pus ridden, melting arm flesh, well, that was his cue.

-*-

_Huh. I don’t get it. Huh? He stabbed me? But, I spent so much time and planning to meet him, I thought he’d be happy to see me._

Sarin did the only thing she knew how to do as an injured rabbit. Crawl. Crawl to her little den and die. So she crawled, like a worm. The vault was a nice place to expire, wasn’t it? Yes.

Crawl, crawl, crawl, squirm, squirm, squirm.

Hmm.

_Let me out._

Huh?

How long was Sarin crawling? Quite a while, given the long trail of black mess flowing from her. She looked up. Who was saying that? A tube?

“Oh, hello,” she managed, her voice weak and confused. “Sorry, can’t really talk, not doing so well.”

What was she talking to? Oh. This strange body in this stranger tube.

_Let me out._

She blinked. “I don’t think I can.”

Hmm.

“Oh. But. Maybe I can. If I do, think you can give a hand?” She prodded the knifepoint lodged in her skull.

Silence. Oh? She was going crazy. A side effect of death. She’d forget anyway when she came back. She always forgot. Darn. She’d forget the thief too.

_Yes._

Her ears perked. Oh?

“Oh!”

With what little strength she had left, Sarin stood, hobbling to the glass fixture, her hand pressing against it. It hissed.

It cracked.

-*-

Light.

Blurry, deformed light. It drips into the impenetrable dark which has held you hostage for the last. . .

What? What time is it? How long has it been since you. . .

Your eyes peel open. Nothing makes sense, as the images flashing before you are a mess of colors, like a frantic painting. Sounds too are strange, distorted and muddled. One noise cuts through all of it, dignified, though you don’t understand.

You blink. Images clear, shapes are recognizable. Sensation returns to you, and it’s _not_ burning. You can breathe, though pain lingers. After a few moments, your senses foster tentative normalcy, but how long you can stay conscious you don’t know. Weakness pins you down, and movement feels impossible.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, my dear boy.”

Some ghoul coalesces into existence next to you, a crimson nightmare hiding behind an unmoving smile. Oh. It’s Alastor. He’s wearing a surgeon’s apron which is stained with blood – your blood, and a part of you fears he’s just finished some gruesome experiment.

“W-what,” you try to say. Your voice is weak, so unbelievably weak. “What happened?”

Alastor chuckled. “Ho ho ho, your heart was doing its best interpretation of _Silent Night,_ but I gave the little fella’ a good pep talk and turned it right back into a Broadway show!”

You don’t understand. “Where am I?”

“You’re _safe,_ my boy. You’re _home.”_ Alasator says this as he removes his gown, but his words are coated with such malign horror you feel the opposite of safe.

Realization hits you. Where is Spade!? You start to ask, but Alastor places a hand on your shoulder, attempting to comfort you. All it does is choke you with a dread terror.

He senses your question. “No, no, Anon. Rest now. Everyone is fine. Your companion got you here and he’s, oh how do they put it, ah? ‘Knocking one back’ with our cantankerous cat. The Miss is out, too, attending to some business, but she’ll return.”

He chuckles. “Seems _you_ weren’t the only one getting into the cookie jar today. Our beloved Angel saw fit to cause a little chaos. He and his ‘plus one’ got the city singing the blues, if you catch my drift.”

You didn’t. Your mind was swimming. Friend? Spade? Spade was alive? Thank fuck. And Angel. . . 

Angel was gonna' kill you.

“Of course, you can imagine their confusion once they see _you._ We’ll say, ah, you lost a bet, hmm? Too many drinks does that too a man, doesn't it?”

He sneers at you. He’s covering for you, but not _covering._ You know his type, you just don’t have the strength to tell him to fuck off. He’ll hold this against you, as leverage, and you don’t want to find out for what.

“Try to feel better, Anon,” he says, giving you a pillow and fluffing it. “Oh, I _hate_ seeing our dear residents in such pain.” His hand covers his forehead, feigning anguish.

“After all, I know _all_ about it.” He snickers, pulling bedcovers over you, in a way one might cover a corpse.

You realize you’re in your room as he swaggers off. Before he closes the door, though, he looks to you.

“We _really_ have to catch up, Anon.” His eyes are scarlet, unblinking.

You grimace as he closes the door. You decide to flip him off. For some reason, though, that proves impossible. Impossible? Why?

. . .

[Your left arm is gone.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IU2wBKoDOzg)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was excited to get this written. It was an almost frantic need, much like Your need to rob and steal, eh? 
> 
> And yes, I'm quite aware of the parallels at the end. Sometimes I can't resist a good theme.


	7. The Song I Used to Sing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Days after the robbery, you need time. But Angel Dust is none too pleased with your grim demeanor, so, he suggests a night out. Even with all the debauchery, though, you learn things about him you never expected. . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was quite anxious to get this finished. Nervous energy consumed me for the past few days - it was like leaving a friend unanswered. And in a way, maybe it was? But, it was a joy to write, as the aftermath always is. 
> 
> It's also nice because we get to return to You and Angel Dust, the entire point of the series, really.
> 
> Also, if you get to "that part" and are having a little trouble with it, see the bottom notes, I'll try to help (don't jump down there yet or you might spoil yourself).

**The Song I Used to Sing**

An alien object stares back at you. Five stubs of brass interconnected into a faux-gold frame, mimicking a limb. Its construction is meant to replace an arm, right down to the joint, but it’s not you. You expand “your” fingers, you clench them together, you make a fist. But it’s not your fist. No matter how many times you repeat the rhythm, it comes no closer to feeling like a piece of you.

You were Anon: Master Thief. You had plans for this city. And it’s cost you.

Your eyes don’t leave the thing, the frame of metal, thinking if you stare long enough maybe your real arm will grow back. It’s supposed to, right? That’s how it works down here? Death isn’t permanent, injury is a momentary complication. . . _right?_

“Mister Anon?”

Clench. Fist. Expand. You can control it, but you can’t _feel it._

“ _Mister Anon?”_

You stop, and your eyes wander up to the sitting figure, concern splayed over her features. Charlie Magne – daughter of Lucifer, Princes of Hell – clears her throat, sitting matter-of-factly in her chair across from you. Next to her, her number one, Vaggie, looks at you with such _expectancy,_ as if your predicament is entirely predictable.

“Did you hear me?” says Charlie, her tone stern, yet, sad. She’s not happy. You know why. Looking at you is like looking at failure, since you are, technically, at the Hotel for rehab. But old habits cling like flesh to bone, and your addictions demand a heavy price.

“Course’ he ain’t. Ya’ getting the Anon experience. Great, isn’t it? Don’t listen to nobody, except himself.”

You aren’t alone. Next to you, on the couch, is Angel Dust. But he’s next to you in the sense someone’s forced in proximity to something vile.

“You’ve got no business judging him,” cut in Vaggie, pointing at Angel with an accusing finger. “Gambling is one thing, but murdering by the hundreds?”

Angel mimes a talking hand, propping his chin in the other, elbow on couch-arm. “Yack yack yack, already heard it, sister. Don’t go all ‘broken record on me.’ Cause your latest hit _I bitch constantly_ is gettin’ really, really old.”

Vaggie grits her teeth and starts to stand, but halts as Charlie tosses her a soft gaze.

“We’ve discussed it already, and we’re not here to chastise you again,” continued Charlie, straightening herself. “But it’s important you both be here.”

“Pfft, why?” chided Angel. “Is mommy angry?”

Charlie’s gaze narrowed, a dance of red flashing through her eyes. “This isn’t a joke, Angel. And I’m not _angry,_ just disappointed. I’m. . . trying to help you. Both of you.”

Her fingers rolled together, uncertain. “No one said this was easy. Addictions are what they are, even if it’s killing, or drinking, or gambling.” She forced a weak smile.

“This is Hell after all and, I guess by those standards, it could be so much worse. But part of my therapy is helping you both, and, I clearly haven’t done my job.”

Charlie stares at you, then to your arm. “What possessed you to offer _yourself_ like that, Mister Anon, I’ll never know. I don’t judge. But that’s an alarming habit of self-destruction.”

You remain quiet. You can hardly process her words – things are cloudy, out of focus. She doesn’t even know. In her mind, you lost your arm because you made a bad, bad wager in a round of cards. Ol’ Alastor was kind of enough to patch you up, according to the Radio Demon’s account, but, also according to him _it wasn’t coming back._ More so, your face took some hits too, trails of snaking scars smeared over its left side. Even your eye suffered, an imitation of Angel’s black sclera.

“And I’d _never_ forgive myself if something happened to either of you.” She catches herself.

“Ahm. Something worse.”

Charlie takes a long breath, patting her knees. “It’s why, for the week, I’m setting a _curfew_ for the two of you. And if you plan to leave the Hotel, you _will_ be chaperoned. Right now, it’s clear your problems and addictions are getting out of control.”

Angel snorts. “Ya’ kiddin’ me?”

Charlie crosses her arms, stern. “Do I _look_ like I’m joking?”

You don’t really react. It’s difficult to process the idea. A curfew? It’s almost amusing, imagining a criminal mastermind and an ex-criminal mastermind having a bedtime. But here you were.

Angel pressed his fingers to his head like a phone. “Oh, uh, yeah hang on, lemme’ just tell the clubs I ain’t gonna’ be there because I brought home a bad grade and ‘maw’ isn’t happy.”

Charlie sighed. “You’re free to break the curfew. But, you’re also free to find somewhere else to live. You are both under _our_ care, and if we think you’re in trouble, we have to step in. So, yes Angel, maybe you _should_ call them.”

Angel twitches, and he looks like he wants to pop-out his extra pair of arms and give a six-fingered-salute. Somehow, he resists. Charlie notes the anger, bringing her eyes back to you.

“Anon?”

You don’t have the energy to fight this, and you don’t know if you care as much. You. . . feel bad. But not because you betrayed the Hotel, or even because your heist came with such a dreadful price. You feel bad, because you failed Angel. He has, in his own way, been looking out for you since you got here. He’s lied for you. He’s saved your life, _twice._ He’s even wanted you to give up your path, but, you ignored him. You never changed direction, so you ended up where you were going. And crashed – _hard._

“I understand,’ you manage. Charlie gives a weak smile.

“I know it seems a little harsh, but it’s good for you both.”

Then, her eyes popped wide, and she leaped up. “Oh! Devil! I forgot about dinner! I’m sorry, we’ll pick this up later!” she said, briskly hopping out of the room. Vaggie watched her go, then looked between you and Angel.

She sighed. “Please. _Please_ you two. Try to be good.” Afterward, she stood, chasing after Charlie.

The quiet comes back, ruthless in its weight.  It’s Angel who breaks it. _“I understand_ ,” he repeats, mocking you. “That’s all ya’ got to say, huh?”

Your eyes shift to him. He’s still reclined, annoyed, staring ahead at the wall. One of his gloved hand is balled in a fist.

“Gah, I could _punch_ you right now _,”_ he adds, gritting his teeth. “Aaah! Ohhaha, oh, Anon, you have no fuckin’ idea _.”_

You. . . aren’t too surprised and you can’t blame him. He turns finally, glaring at you. “Well!? Say somethin’ you stupid shit! What? You a shit movie from the roarin’ twenties? Are words gonna start appearing above your head, you goddamn silent film! Ya’ too _good_ for me now?”

You blink. “Angel. . .”

He groans, grabbing a pillow, screaming into it. He holds it there for a while, then, _gently,_ puts it back on the couch, crossing his arms.

“Team bitch chewed me out for an _hour,_ Anon. I counted. I almost brained m’self to get them to shut up, holy _jeezus._ Because of _you.”_

Now, this, you’re confused with. Angel has every right to his fury, and you kind of _want_ him to punch you, if only because it’ll make him feel better. But because of you?

“I don’t understand,” you say, looking at the floor. Angel scoffs.

“Course you don’t ya’ class A moron. You only think about _you._ Well, lemme just give ya’ the four one one, shithead.”

He rolls his fingers into his temples, grumbling. “Look at you. Goddammit. So cock-fuckin-sure you had it all planned out, huh? But ya’ know what gets me, is that ya’ think it was all you, babe. That you smashed the biggest shebang in this whole shitshow city and got out alive, because of some 'master plan'.” He finger quotes, looking disgusted.

You start to look at him. “What? What are you talking about?”

“Ohhhhhh, I’ll tell ya’ Fort Cocks. You just waltzed right in like a big swingin’ dick, didn’t ya? Kinda weird you weren't’ pulverized, though, by like, a thousand guns. Know why? Oooh, I’ll tell ya a secret, buddy.”

He leans in, glancing around like someone’s listening, hand to his mouth. “It’s cause of little ol’ me. _And_ my bestie. We fuckin’ cleaned so many goons you might as well eighty-six the purge, we did all the damn legwork.”

You blink. What?

“Havin’ trouble, genius? Well it’s cause I’m like your guardian angel,” he says, pressing hands together as if in prayer, a fake, limp halo poofing above him. “Me and Cherri smoked a buncha' gang bozos they had no choice but to throw every damn thing they had at us. You get it? The Sugary Shitshow was as empty as Caligula’s cock because they didn’t have the nuts to spare.”

He jammed a thumb into his fluffy ‘cleavage,’ features indignant, snarling at you. “ _I_ kept your ass from getting _cleaned_ you smart ass, two-timing, cheap-suit Pacone wannabe! And whaddo I get for it? A scream sesh from Vagina and daddy’s little monster while I get to sit around this dump, with _you.”_

Angel Dust crumples up the cartoonish ring above his head and tosses it. He falls into the couch, arms crossed once more, pouting.

Damn. Maybe you _should’ve_ died, because you wouldn’t have to hear this. The poison hurt, but this was worse. Angel Dust was your only friend. He and Spade. But you used them both, manipulating them for your own gains. You were a beast of greed – no wonder you ended up in Hell.

“I had no idea,” you start to say.

“Of course you _didn’t,”_ Angel bites back. “And you got the audacity to sit there like a sourpuss and mope. ‘Ohhh nooo, my poor widdle arm, how will I ever surviiiiive.’ Blegh. Wasn't for me, you wouldn't even have an ass to sit with!”

He fishes something from the inner pocket of his suit, a flask with pink engravings. Swirling the top off, he takes a big swig. Maybe too big a swig. He gasps, wiping his lip, shoving it into your chest.

“Drink it.”

“I’m not-”

“ _Fucking_ drink it.

Well, more poison wasn’t gonna hurt. You take a draft and cough. It burns like hellfire and tastes like rancid nail polish.

“Agh, gahg. God, what the hell is that?”

Angel Dust yanks it back, peering at the flask. “I’unno. Some Kentucky reserve bullshit.” He knocks down another swig before stuffing it back in his pocket.

He sighs, standing now. “I’m gonna’ get fuckin’ blasted and try to forget today ever existed.”

Alarmed, you try to stop him. “Angel, hang on. Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-”

He holds up a finger, shivering. “Ugh. Shut up. I hate that shit. Yeah, I know you’re sorry _now._ Caught with ya’ hand in the cookie jar. Everybody really makes them hail-mary prayers when that happens. Sorry don’t mean shit.”

You don’t want him to hate you. “I. . .”

“Ya’ gonna have to show me you mean it. All there is to it.”

Before you say more, he struts off. Fuck. Maybe for the best – he needs time to cool down and you just need time.

-*-

You drift to the Hotel’s bar – admittedly not one of their smartest additions to the building – but you can at least drown yourself in good ol’ “liquid forget” while you figure out a way to work things out with Angel. When you get there, though, you’re not alone. Husk is attending and there's someone else, sitting at the bar.

Spade!

“Spade?” you say, walking to him. Indeed, the gray Doberman demon shifts, looking at you. He manages a chuckle. He sees your arm.

“Devil below. You’re not dead.”

You give a weak smile. “Not yet.”

He gestures to your arm. “The hell did he do to you?”

You don’t want to reflect on the arm, but, it’s you now, like it or not. You raise it, flexing the fingers. “I guess. . . he saved me.” He meaning Alastor.

“Do you know him?” you add, taking a seat. Husk comes to you, frowning.

“Er, been told not to uh, send any good times your way, Anon.”

Ah, right. They think this - your predicament - was because of alcohol. “Well. . .”

Husk chuckles. “Look, just take it easy, all right? Gettin’ too old to throw out floozies these days.”

Husk goes to find you a poison, while Spade’s voice gets low. “Know him? Yeah. And uh, apparently, _so do you.”_

“And apparently,” Spade says, gesturing around him, “The daughter of Lucy-fuckin-fir is here too.”

“It’s a strange crowd,” you admit. Spade’s not done.

“AND, unless I’ve been hittin’ the sauce too hard, ol kinky boots is swaggering around here! Anon. _Anon._ If I died again and this is some kind of super hell, you better tell me. Cause I owe you a fuck you.”

You chuckle, and it feels good to laugh. “Nope, you’re not dead.”

Realization hits you, and you’re suddenly swimming with questions.

“But, you _do_ know Alastor," you say, "He wasn’t here before, appeared about a week ago.”

Spade sighs. “Yeah. He uh, helped me with this.” He points to his head, and you assume he means the dog head. “Course, he’s a man of many deals, so uh. Looks like I’m right back in it.”

You can only imagine what that implies. In the meantime, Husk returns, sliding you a bottle. “That’s a stout ala’ imperial, so you take it easy, got it?”

You thank him, taking a quick sip. You just want to feel at ease.

Spade points at your arm. “Guess you are too.”

You quirk a brow.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Spade chuckles. “Pretty sure it’s not just me, but, Allie’s not the altruistic type. He’s gonna’ hold this over us, but for what, couldn’t say. That arm is his doing and Devil knows he’s looking for bargains.”

You scoff. “Fuck him.”

“Hahaha, shit, if only it were that easy. Heh. He ain’t too bad from the backside though. Whaddya say? Would you give his downtown a visit?”

You try to stop yourself from smiling, ignoring the implications of a “deal” with Alastor. “Not my type.”

“Same. Too unspeakable evil for me. Probably not a cuddler, either.”

You take another sip. “Spade, uh, listen.” Your eyes go to him now, sincere.

“I need to thank you. You saved my life and devil knows where I’d be if you didn’t. I owe you.”

He shrugged. “Eh, not one for bein’ owed, just gets messy. Thankin’ me is plenty. Oh and uh, a fifty-fifty cut is nice too.”

Oh, right, the loot. Well, after all is said and done, wealth is the farthest thing from your mind right now. “Keep it.”

Spade doesn’t hesitate. “Don’t mind if I do. Was kinda’ hoping you’d say that, cause, ain’t much of it left.”

“What was then?”

He holds up a finger. “One bag. Don’t get me wrong, good shit in that bag, but considering what we _saw._ Urgh. Make a grown dog cry.”

Indeed, the wealth inside the vault appeared limitless, stretching on like a labyrinth. As you mused this, your thoughts went back to that _thing,_ in its tomb of glass. The unsettling visage of its sour skin and broken flesh flashes through your thoughts, along with its icy, soundless voice. Fuck. If you never saw it again it’d be too soon.

“Hmm. What about the others?”

Spade gives you a grim look. “Pretty dead I’d say. And the true death, no coming back from it. I could smell it.”

Weight eats you. “It’s my fault.”

Spade makes a disgusted sound. “Ugh. No, it’s not. Don’t start courting guilt like a dime with a big ass. Nobody likes a mope. They knew what they were getting into. Besides, pretty sure Sicario murdered kids by the dozen and Oni dismembered farmers and fucked their wives. They were demons, remember.”

Huh. Well, he wasn’t wrong. Hah, what a strange thing – a thief having empathy.

“Well. What about you? Staying here?”

Spade sighs. “Eh. Guess until I get my marching orders from red I’m stuck. So yeah.”

You’re actually relieved. His company is good, and, even though you’ve called the shots thus far, Spade’s got experience on you, and right now, you need wisdom.

“The Hotel’s nice. You should get a room.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

He looks around, a mischevious expression playing on his face, leaning toward you. “Hey uhhhhh, by the way, is uh, the blondie seeing anyone?”

You blink, staring at him. “You’re asking if the _daughter of the Devil_ is dating?”

He shrugs, innocent. You laugh again. “I’m pretty sure she is.”

“Aw. Ah well. Hmm. What about them goat boys?”

Now you _really_ stare at him. “Wha. What? Raz and Daz? Are you serious?”

He snickers. “Raz and Daz? That’s cute. And of course I’m serious. You ever been with a shortstack?”

“Oh my god, you horny ass mutt.”

“They’re practically twins.”

You take another sip, fighting back more laughter. “I have no idea Spade, I have no idea. My tastes are a little more multi-limbed.”

Spade squints, then as realization sets in, his eyes go wide. “Oohhhhh. Look at you. Knockin’ that little twink, huh? Well good for you. That’s really appropriate, criminal and criminal. You’d make a cute couple.”

You hold your smile, but it falters, remembering how pissed Angel is at you. “It’s not like that.”

Again, Spade shrugs. “Whatever you say.” He slaps his hand on the bar, looking around. “Shit, shit. What the hell do goats like, anyway?”

“Jeezus, Spade, you’re really on this now, huh?”

He looks past you. “Ey, if I get my balls knocked around by a couple of twins, I’m good with that.”

Husk coughs. “I hear they like donuts you goddamn weirdo.”

Spade perks like he’s found another vault. His eyes dart around, scheming. “Hmm.”

He pats your shoulder, standing (and wobbling). “Anon, I’ll catch you later, I’ve got something to do.”

“Of course,” you say, rolling your eyes.

“Oh,” he stops, spinning around. “By the way. It’s not Spade. It’s Hox.”

Before you process this, he stumbles off, set on his newfound quest for. . . Razzle and Dazzle, apparently. You shake your head, returning to your drink, absentmindedly picking it up with your metal limb. The bottle slips through the uncoordinated fingers, smashing on the ground like a pool of blood.

“Fuck.”

-*-

The dark is the only domain you understand now. At least here, you can’t hurt anybody. At least, under your bedcovers, there are no vaults or gangs or people to manipulate. Quiet is all that exists, the damnable, insufferable silence. Uncaring, it forces your problems upon you, demands you contemplate your failures. You want to sleep, but wretched images of your actions conjure forth, a swift reprisal of the kind of person you are.

It’s not the arm. It should be, but it’s not. It’s not the fact you almost died during your heist or the fact that, apparently, your success wasn’t a true one. It’s the notion of how you hurt Angel which truly disturbs you. Goddammit. Sentimentality was poison, you knew this. Why should you care, honestly? Your ambitions were more important, right?

No. No, not anymore. Angel was a whore from hell. Spade – or “Hox,” – was just a common hire, a toss away for a robbery. But they were your friends, a commodity irreplaceable.

Caring for others. How weak. How foolish. How _stupid._ Guess you were all three.

Indeed, your mind fragmented. Normally, you focused on the next grand plan, a future heist to bedazzle all the denizens of hell. Yet now? You didn’t even bother checking the news. Was a near-death experience all it took to shake you off your rhythm? You close your eyes. Sleep doesn’t come. You just see a tired Hox, a pissed off Angel, a missing limb. And then. . . the building in the rain. The men at the table, smiling, waiting.  It left you with a terrible pain: yearning for something you couldn’t understand, or touch, or take.

You sighed. You keep your eyes shut, hoping sleep might drag you into oblivion. Maybe it was time to change. Maybe. . .

A barrage of taps catches your attention. You grumble, pulling open your eyelids. Goddammit, what now? Can’t a man drown himself in self-pity? You ignore it, hoping it goes away. You’re not interested in another pep talk with Charlie or whatever Hox has been up to.

The knocks come again. A muffled voice cuts through the frame. _“Open the door ya’ dumb bitch.”_

You sit up, lurching forward. Was that real or was it just wishful thinking from the crazier part of your brain? Standing, uncertain, you go to the door, unfastening the locks. As you peel it ajar, a well-dressed Angel Dust meets your gaze, carrying an annoyed expression.

You swing the door open, in disbelief. “Angel?”

He’s wearing a fancy perfume, a snazzy purse, fine pink pinstripe suit, and he looks ready for a night out. “One and only.”

You look around him. It’s late, well beyond the curfew imposed upon you both. “What are-”

“Toss on your best suit, babe, we’re gettin’ fucked tonight.”

You blink, confused. “What?”

He grunts, rubbing his eyes. “Anon, I swear it’s like somebody needs to go Lutheran on your forehead. You. Me. Out.”

You’re surprised. You thought he was pissed at you. “Er, that’s breaking the curfew?”

He growls. “Do I look like a fucking boy scout to you?” He stops, putting a finger to lip, imagining. “Nn, okay, bad example.”

He waves his hands. “Ya’ really worried about following the rules?”

You don’t know why he’s doing this. “I just. . . don’t want to get you into more trouble.”

He pauses. His voice lowers. “Fuck curfew, and fuck trouble, unless the trouble is _me._ Anon you are a mopey little shit and it’s drivin’ me crazy and we got an _eternity_ to be as plain as white rice. You said you wanna’ show me you’re sorry?”

You go quiet. He smirks, stealing victory. “ _Yeah_. Thought so. Well, we need chaperones, right? Then chaperone me, bitch.”

You nod. “All right. If it means that much to you.”

“Atta’ boy.”

“Just one thing,” you say, voice serious. “If we get caught, let me take the blame for it, okay? It was my idea.”

He rolls his eyes. “Anon, I don’t need a white knight, jeezus.”

You don’t waiver. _“Let. Me.”_

He smiles. “Yeah, yeah, whatever tough guy.” He twirls a finger. “Now can ya make like a monkey and grab a suit? We ain’t got all night.”

You don’t take long. You decide on the suit you had when you first arrived at the Hotel, meeting Angel in the hall. Like a giggling prankster, he tugs you along until you both leave through the brick entrance, the secret shifting stones where you’ve snuck in and out from. Once out, the “night” air greets you, dark glow of distant neon casting pink and red hues along the sky, accented by a malignant, glowing pentagram.

You want to make it up to Angel. He’s not one for traditional apologies, so whatever makes him happy tonight, you’re game. Even if it gets. . . messy.

“Where to?” you ask, as you follow alongside him. You make some distance between yourself and the Hotel, where Angel waves down a taxi.

“Mm? Nice little digs. Trip down memory lane.”

You’re curious, and it’s not long until a black vehicle slides up. You enter along with Angel, settling into the pink fabric. It’s. . . familiar. Nostalgia hits you, even for something that was roughly a month ago.

Angel Dust points, flagging the driver.

“Pink Pucci, and make it quick like pal. Like the cops are about to shove a nightstick up your ass quick like.”

You’ve never heard the name, and the driver grunts, slamming the gas. As he does, Angel snickers, pulling out a mini-mirror and giving himself a once over, checking his mascara and padding his cheeks. You forgot how good he looks, especially as the city lights dance through the window, coloring his snow-white fluff in mesmerizing hues.

You know he’s not one for apologies, but you so badly want to make things up to him. Where to start, you aren’t sure.

“Look, I know you’re not a fan of weepy apologies. So, I won’t say sorry. Just thanks,” you say, glancing at him cautiously.

He finishes with his mirror, clicking it shut and stuffing it back into his purse. He glances at you, waiting.

“You could’ve iced me out but, you’re giving me your time. Again. And you uh, saved my life.”

You try humor. “Hey, look, if you want I can give you a handy with this thing,” you say, making a jerking motion with your machine hand.

This _finally_ forces a smile on his features. “Yahah, no thanks, don’t want oil on my junk.”

“Well, lemme’ suck your dick then.”

He snorts. “That’s _my_ line.”

You stare at him. He stares back.

“Okay, okay, easy tiger. Let’s file that under ‘things I can get my friend to do cause’ he owes me’.”

Oh god. Hearing him say it takes away so much hurt. You try not to start sputtering like an idiot. The euphoria of opening the vault is nothing compared to the joy of Angel calling you ‘friend’ again. “You uh, sure you wanna’ be friends with a washup like me?”

He rolls his eyes, sighing. “Of _course_ I do, you dumb bitch.”

Angel crosses his arms, free ones reclined on the seat. “All right, let’s make like _Jimmy Johns_ and brain this elephant. I’m not. . . mad at ya’, Anon. I mean, I was. I _was._ I wanted to strangle ya’. But just cause, well. . . well shit man! Shit! You scared the nuts off me!”

You went quiet.

“When that shitshack casino blew up I just, damn. I was like ‘well that’s it, my buddy is dead, there goes another one.’ Had to pretend everything was all dandy. And then I had to sit there and take shit from those delightful little carpet munchers and. . . then _you’re alive._ Ugh. It’s a fuckload to process in a day. And I kept wantin’ to scream ‘I told you I told you I told you!’ Ehg. You get it?”

You nod. But you don’t think you understand, not entirely. Angel, in his own way, prepared to mourn for you. You, however, went about things with such cold, assured indifference.

But you’re also confused. “Hang on, what? It blew up?”

He gives you a _duh_ look. “Well, yah! Of course it did! After me and Cherri went on a celebratory bender they was all like, on the news, ‘hi I’m Tom Trench and I’m a huge dumbass!’”

He imitates the reporters, puffing his face and crossing his eyes. “Today we got the hot scoop! We suck, but also, Big C fucking made Pentious eat dick! Also, everyone’s favorite casino got torched! Bodies everywhere! No survivors!”

You’re mixed on how to feel, watching his imitation with. . . amusement. But you’re back to his description. Apparently, the Sugary Chigurh blew up.

“I wasn’t even there for it, apparently. Hox helped me escape and I blacked out. I had no idea it collapsed.”

Angel Drops his imitation. “Who?”

“Oh, Hox. The dog. Goes by Spade.”

Angel Dust’s eyes flash with intrigue. “Oh, that hot little pup? You uh, gonna’ introduce me?”

You grimace. “Er. I think he’s got a thing for the goats.”

Angel frowns. “Aww, what shit taste.”

Angel Dust glances out the window, the driver making a turn as the vehicle speeds toward downtown. “Huh. Well anyway. So uh, you wasn’t makin’ like Hamburger Lady?”

“I wasn’t in the explosion, no, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Angel goes quiet, head sinking. “Oh.” He smacks his lips, thumbs twiddling.

“So, I gave you shit for nothing, eh?”

You laugh. “Oh, no. No. Angel, it’s fine, it is. I’m glad you’re looking out for me, even when I was thinking about myself. I’ve been a real piece of shit.”

Angel gives a ‘hm,’ but doesn’t pursue. Rather, he flicks your brass arm. “How’d it happen, then? Get into a badass knife fight? Ya ain’t got mine with you so I assume you put it to good use,” he says, giving you a smug, expecting look.

Images of what happened come flying back into your head. All the bodies and the stench of poison, like a chemical used to cleanse bacteria. Then, that. . . _thing._ Her terrible laugh, her unblinking, unforgiving eyes, the horror of watching your arm. . .

Your features must have changed, because Angel immediately picks up on this, hands raised. “Eeee, yikes, okay, bad question, bad question.”

He rolls a hand through his hair tuft, clearing throat. “Let’s put a fork in it, kay? What’s done is done. I ain’t mad anymore. You’re alive, I’m alive, and I want drugs and dick.”

You smile. “Fair enough.” You'll tell him soon, but not right now.

He smiles too, looking out the window. “I’m glad you’re okay, pockets.”

Uh oh. You feel something. Something different. Something going beyond infatuation and greed. Beyond lust. You look at Angel Dust, watching the city lights playing over him, catching him in _just_ the right way. You want to say something. You. . .

“Eyyy, there she is!” exclaims Angel, raising two arms and pointing with the others. You look, and through the driver’s window, you see a quaint cut of a building, styled like something from the early 1900s, draped with a big, pulsing sign _Pink Pucci._ It’s odd, striking you as almost familiar like you’ve seen it somewhere. Or, maybe it’s because everything in Pentagram City has at least _one_ neon sign.

Regardless, the driver grunts, yanking to the building side. You exit with Angel, who tosses a wad of cash at the cab. There’s an irritated gurgle, and the driver leaves, as the building looms over you two.

“And this is a strip club, I wager?” you say, because what _else_ would it be. Angel tosses his bust of fluff and adjusts black bowtie, grinning.

“Oh, you bet. But ain’t just any pole-polish. S’my first one, where I got started.”

He starts to saunter towards the entrance, waiting for you to follow. You do so, curious. “Oh?”

Pride coats his tone. “Yeah. Me and the girls worked the stage and I even got my first adult gig cause of it.”

You stride with him towards the scarlet doors. There’s no line, so you can both go in. Once you do, it’s like stepping through a time portal. When Angel said strip club, you imagined the usual: dim lights, a center stage, a few figures working the pole, crowds in the dark and sections for “extras.” But it’s not _quite_ that. There’s a stage, but everything is washed in a comforting, orange glow. Tables are populated by observers, but they’re in formal attire. The stench of cigars lingers with perfume, while girls work over clients, tossing coquettish glances and running their hands in close proximity to, well, you know.

Wait. You thought girls? No. No, upon closer inspection, the curvy figures draped in makeup are boys. Incredibly girly boys. You’re starting to see how Angel got his start here.

Angel throws an arm around your shoulder, gesturing proudly. “Classy fuckin’ digs right? They don’t make em’ like this anymore.”

You’re impressed. “It’s great," you say in earnest. Kind of what you needed, really. Angel beams.

While you stand there, though, it doesn’t take long before someone recognizes the foul-mouthed arachnid. One of the “girls” squeaks, rushing over to him, and it’s all getting familiar again. They hug, hold hands, kiss each other’s cheeks, the nine yards.

The demon currently assaulting Angel with memory-lane looks similar to a squirrel, just with very wide hips.

“Holy shit, where’ve you been you damn nancy!” they squeak, chittering.

Angel Dust sneers, polishing his fingers on his suit. “Aww, babe, you know me. Just shoving my diamond studded boot up this city’s ass, remindin’ em who’s boss.”

The squirrel gets excited. “Yeah! I saw. You and Cherri knocked down a whole block!”

Then, their wide pink eyes go to you. “Oooh. And who’s _this._ Lookin’ for something easy, big guy? I’m a squirrel, you know, I can fit _a lot_ in these cheeks, and I don’t mean my ass. Or, do I?”

A part of you wants to say it: I’m Anon, Master Thief. Pride sticks to you. But you know what? Fuck it. Maybe you’re just Anon.

“Just someone who likes getting blown by spiders, apparently,” you say. Angel squeezes you.

The squirrel snickers. “What a nut. I like nuts.”

Angel smirks. “You keep them cheeks gabbin’, sister. He’s mine.”

The demon forces a feigned pout. Then, they lead you to a table, while Angel starts catching up with the crowds. You sit with him, and it’s like he’s signing autographs. _Everyone_ comes up to him at least once, even some of the patrons. It’s cute, and you can see how he basks in the attention. He really shines, and he makes them laugh. But the other thing? Every time they ask about _you,_ Angel calls you his date. If they don’t, Angel mentions you anyway, like he’s proud to be with you. You’re not sure what you did to deserve the “honor” aside from being a criminal, but you’re happy to take it anyway.

While you sit, you catch a couple of shows with Angel, tossing back a whiskey sour while he hits off of a few Cosmopolitans. The drink goes down easy, doesn’t burn as much, leaving you with a nice buzz. It’s extra nice because you get to just talk with Angel, watching some of the _flexible_ dancers. You don’t remember the last time you were with him like this. You don’t, because you never were.

Eventually, Angel loosens up, meaning he’s in phase _one._ You’d never have guessed he was on his third vodka, what with his tolerance. He gets up then, mentioning he’ll return. He heads to the bar, making smiles at the server, an oafish, old looking curmudgeon who grins too. They exchange words and Angel passes him some bills, while the big fellow tosses him a bag and a key. Angel looks positively _delighted._

When he returns, he can’t hide his grin, gesturing for you to stand. “Got us a room.”

You blink. Oh. It’s not hard to parse what he’s implying with that. And you know what? You’re fine with that. It’s been a painful week. The alcohol’s getting to you and you could really use some company. Specifically the dick sucking kind. Specifically Angel.

You stand, walking with him. “They’ve got rooms, huh?”

He puts a hand around your side, guiding you to some stairs. “They’ve got _my_ room.”

You’re curious. As you stride up the steps, there is indeed a black door with _Angel_ angrily carved into its frame. The spider fishes out a key and pushes it open, leading to a well-sized chamber with a great city view.

He shuts the door, sealing you both in a realm of privacy. Lights flick on, and it’s a comforting amber, washing over a luxury carpet, fancy bed, styled furnishings, and a piano. Angel Dust absorbs the ambiance, expanding his arms as he twirls.

“Ahhh, damn, feels _good._ Fuck I missed this joint. Was simple back then.”

He snickers, placing his purse on a table, twiddling fingers over his baggie. “Got us some candy, too.”

You don’t notice yet, lost in, well, classic Angel. The room is refined like it was designed by a burlesque dancer. Perhaps this was him before he got caught up in _everything_ that was Pentagram City. You realize, too, he’s sharing this with you. A piece of himself. It’s so kept together you don’t wager he brought many ‘guests’ with him up here, making it that much more special.

Right now, though, Angel is more committed to his bag. “Egh. What the. . . ew. No. Cheap shit. Not enough. This is fuckin’ _plastic._ Got better stuff at home. Hmm. . .”

You glance, and he’s going through an assortment of pills, capsules, powders, and Devil knew what else. Drugs, you already knew. Wouldn’t be Angel without them.

He pulls out a cigarillo, a little blunt, looking it over. “This’ll do.” You, in the meantime, sit on the edge of the bed, trying to relax.

Angel lights the blunt, minding the tip and then giving it a quick hit. At once, he makes a repulsed sound, like a cat hacking. “Bleagh! Agh! Fuck, what is this mid-shit? Did they jam this thing with resin! Ugh, it's like a bar shoe!”

He gestures to you, offering the apparently garbage-quality stuff. Usually, you just keep it to drinks, but tonight? You want to forget the city. So, you nod, taking a drag,  _regardless of_ its contents, filling your lungs with smoke. Your reaction is similar – it’s foul stuff with a dismal aftertaste, and the wrap leaves an oily flavor.

“God _almighty,”_ you say, handing the blunt back. “Tastes like a burnt dog.”

Angel laughs. But despite how awful it is, you both trade a few hits as the drug leave you at ease. In a few minutes, they have their effect. A lightness starts to take you, and things seem outright better. Colors are more vibrant, movement is interesting, and there’s a sort of _saturation_ to your surroundings.

Angel takes one more puff and jams the tip into a glass ashtray. “Ugh. Candy bags. Cheap as fuck so ya’ get what you pay for.”

He sets down his purse, eyeing you. “Hmm. I need to wash that taste out of my mouth.”

You’re still on the bed, and you return his gaze. Oh. Damn. It’s like you’re looking at him _all over_ again. He seems extra shapely. Those fine, tempting curves at his hips promise a generous backside. He wears a come-hither expression, and his lips look so soft, glistening. You can feel your heart starting to hammer, and desire is leaking into your flesh. That’s the _other_ nice thing about drugs – it gets you in the mood to fuck.

The gooey center of your libido pours out. It’s like a switch – you know the kind. When your brain realizes you’re near a hot, welcoming hole, all pretenses drop. Reservations and manners are flung away and it’s like two animals goin’ at it. But the drugs? They crank it to eleven. The promise and proximity of _fucking_ is, in itself, its own drug. But combined with substances, it’s a different beast entirely.

Yeah, you’ve lost your ability to be subtle. “You uh, gonna sit there all night or you going to lick my nuts?” you say to him, wanting.

Angel cracks with laughter, buckling over. “Eyy, there he is, that’s my Anon! Fwhaha, if you told me all it took was a little drinky-drink and some garbage weed to get you ready to ride I’d gotten us better quality shit.”

He stands, sauntering over to you, his arms coming to your shoulders. You cling to him, careful with your mechanical grip, dragging him in for a kiss. This stupid fucking spider shouldn’t turn you on so much but god dammit he’s the most gorgeous thing you’ve seen. Fuck! Angel you stupid, beautiful thing. His lips are impossibly soft and they press into you with desperate affection, tongues playing around, fighting for space, fighting for _more._

You both wrestle out your clothes, exposed to the room air. When your flank springs free, Angel glances down, letting a hand caress against it, stroking in steady, practiced motions. It’s like _bliss._ Warm electricity spikes through your fleshy pillar, and it’s enough to whet your appetite.

“Here, uh, lemme. . .” Angel shifts. He moves past you, going to the bed, sinking to all fours (or all sixes, in his case). He’s exposed to you, save for some lace leggings and thin panties. It’s the perfect position, letting him kneel comfortably while he eyes your cock.

He supports it in palm, licking lips. “Damn, hard enough to break a rock. Atta boy. Haven’t seen a good dick in _weeks.”_

You chuckle, harassed by your lust. “Glad I could help with that problem.”

He nuzzles your tip, forcing a groan from you. “I _bet_ you are.” His lips wrap around the crown, embracing you with tight, wet warmth. Your head arches, at the mercy of his sexual ploys, feeling his tongue dance around your initial inches, finding all the _right_ ways to please you.

“Mmmmmhmmmf.” He gives an approving mumble, looking up at you in a demure fashion. His arms keep him propped up, so only his mouth works you over, wiggling you inside his maw, puffing out his cheek. Each motion is accompanied by a muffled, sloppy slurp, and soon there’s a thin trail of saliva dripping from his chin.

“God Angel, that’s good, your lips. . .”

Your brain is kind of off right now. The words coming from you rip themselves from the primordial ooze of desire. Any further and you’ll start grunting like a caveman.

He pops you free, a hand coming to hold your cock, shoving the inches into his cheek. “Ya’ like it, huh? Want me to kiss it?”

You must look like a drooling fool, but Angel doesn’t care. “Of course I fuckin’ do,” you say.

He chuckles. Then, his lips come to your tip again, smooching it. A thin layer of glaze is left behind until he does it again and again. Once at the tip, pecking at it, then at the sides. “Mwah!” he says. Each kiss fills you with disbelief, because observing his mouth press and smear against you is like a drug-induced dream.

Angel proceeds to open his orifice, tapping your shaft against his tongue. He’s watching you, eager for your reaction, and each groan makes him flush. His own cock is bristling, pressing against the lace fabric, dribbling with sex.

“Nnh, oh, hang on. Never did this for ya’, did I?” As he says this, he lifts himself, just enough so your flank finds itself buried in his fluff “cleavage.” You twitch against it, and the sensation is. . . intriguing. It’s like you’re embraced by thick silk, and Angel Dusts squishes the puff against you, sneering it. Basically, and improvised tit job, letting you stroke yourself against him. He suckles your head each time, tickled by your desire to play along.

“Some guys _really_ need to pretend I’m a girl, so yannow, whatever the boys need.”

You chuckle. “And what about mine?”

He tilts his head. “Awwww, don’t worry toots, I didn’t forget.”

No, he did not, if his actions were anything to go by. Allowing your shaft to rest on his head, Angel maintains a gentle rhythm of strokes with his extra arms, while he leans to wrap his mouth around your stones. He kisses them with excited enthuse, causing them to glisten with saliva and gloss. His tongue flicks around each, polishing the orbs before embracing them, sucking each in his inviting oral chamber. All the while, he keeps his eyes locked to yours in seductive fashion. It’s driving you nuts. Heh.

More slurps emit from his actions, until your member is dripping with saliva and pre. Once again, his mouth runs along your crown, hands rolling to your hips, squeezing, gaze full of promise. You glide your palm through his fluff hair, waiting. You’re patient enough you’re not just gonna’ jam it in, but damn you’re tempted.

“Leeeet’s take care of ya’, pockets,” Angel says, swallowing you. At once, he buries your length into his tight throat, right down to the threshold. He holds it, cheeks flushing red, determined to keep you there.

“God _damn,”_ you utter, seething with hunger. God damn indeed. It’s a marvel he can hold you so long.

He released, coughing, but he’s not deterred. Instead, he assaults your length with smooth, rhythmic motions, head bouncing against your cock, plush lips maintaining a snug, tight hold. Each drag of his maw sends ripples over your mast and drives stronger currents of electric, hot pleasure through your mast, pulling you closer and closer to peak. His tongue glides under your inches, like a cushion, and the proceeding sounds are like music. A chorus you could listen to for hours.

But holy shit do you need release. Along with this fellatio, you start rolling your hips into his mouth. He eagerly accepts, working in tandem as you slap into him like a meat piston. But your thrusts increase from gentle to hard, because it’s impossible to hold back. The drugs and the strain and the misery and the fact you’re with Angel culminate together, driving you to, well, drive into him.

“Mllllfgkk!” The effeminate arachnid notes your lack of hesitation, gripping you hard. He’s not just letting you, he _wants_ you to throatfuck him, and you eagerly oblige.

Devil below, it’s not long before you hit release. Hot, spiking seed rushes to your tip and you burst into Angel, drowning his throat in yourself. You shake and twitch and groan, hitting the hardest orgasm you’ve had in life. Er, unlife. Angel’s along for the ride, cupping you with his tongue, tasting your issue, letting it dribble into him.

For a moment, he’s frozen. But then, slowly, he pulls free from you, wiping his lips. He cackles.

“Well shit Anon, when’s the last time somebody worked that dick over?”

“Not soon enough,” you say between breaths. Damn. Damn that sweet Angel Dust.

Your eyes linger on him, hungry for more. You notice, though, his panties, and the bulge between them. Hmm.

“What about you?” you say, stroking his hair. He looks positively bamboozled.

“Me?”

“Yeah _you._ When’s the last time someone gave you some lovin'?”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Not really a client priority.”

Well that’s _stupid._ You gently clasp his hand, tugging him up. “C’mere.”

He casts you a curious glance. “Ya’ gonna fuck me while standing? That’s pretty hard.”

“Not exactly.”

Intrigued, Angel Dust stands, and you bring him close. You press his back into your chest, where the smooth, generous curve of his rump pushes into your waist. Your hand sneaks around his abdomen, pulling his panties down, and with utmost care, you wrap your fingers around his length, massaging the warm inches. You kiss his neck, chin resting on shoulder.

“There we go.”

Angel can’t fight a small smile, watching your palm stroke along his shivering inches. He bites his lip, hot breaths escaping him, free arms holding your head.

“Oh. H-hah. Didn’t think this was what ya’ meant.”

You shoosh him. “Let me.”

Angel’s done plenty for you. Since the moment you met him, in his own way, he’s looked out for you. Always giving, always opening you to new experiences, even _protecting_ you. So, for fuck sake Angel. Let me do this for you. Let me at least show my appreciation.

It’s clearly been a while since someone touched him like this, because he’s twitching. His whole frame is practically wiggling into yours, and soft moans fill the air as you hasten your motions. Your mechanical hand holds him at the hip, _softly,_ while you squeeze his crown, twisting and hitting all those erogenous zones.

He’s shoved into you now, using you for support. “Ah s-shit!”

You breathe, and the ambrosia of expensive alcohol and perfume drift into you, an intoxicating aphrodisiac. So you maintain your rhythm until Angel’s a melted mess. He shudders, then buckles, cock bursting with its own line of seed, streams of white messing the bed. You stroke a bit more, just to tease, forcing him to squirm from the post-orgasm bliss-pain.

Angel Dust breathes, dapples of sweat forming on his brow. He gives a weak laugh, looking at the stream of himself.

“F-fuck, we got it on my bed," he says, hanging onto you for support.

You kiss him on the cheek. He doesn’t resist, turning around, grinning, assaulting you with his own smooches.

“Guess we’re all in now,” he comments. “Might as well finish the job.”

You know what he means when he yanks you to the covers. At once, you begin your decadent dance. The hours are filled with your motions, creating a song of moans and cries for more. Each is an image caught in time, and your libidos are at max capacity, spurred on by drugs and alcohol.

Angel bucks on all fours while you grip his hips, grinding into his generous rump. You’re on your back, Angel on top, eagerly tossing himself on your cock while you toy with his, until he switches, riding you, letting you caress his supple ass. You fuck him on the sheets, forcing his ankles to his neck, spreading his pink hole with ravenous intent. You both explore the library of positions and ways to fornicate until there’s nothing left but two rutting animals. Well, a thief and a spider.

You keep going, he keeps taking, and your sense of time melts away. 

-*-

It’s like you’ve run a marathon or two. You’re resting in covers, staring at the ceiling, Angel with you. He’s sitting up, leaning into the pillowing, nursing a cig.

“I think I’m gonna have to burn these sheets,” he says with a satisfied smirk, blowing a cloud.

You chuckle. “It’s not _that_ bad.”

“Babe, we fucked cum into the stitching. No amount of bleach is gonna cleanse this.”

Indeed, you both exchanged the sheets for some fresh ones. The others, on the floor, are much like a used tissue.

“We’ve always got mine as a backup.”

He puffs again. “Yeah? Don’t think the Hotel would appreciate that.”

Oh shit, the Hotel. What time was it anyway? Ah, well. Fuck it. You were all in, no going back now.

“I will buy them new ones with my mountains of wealth,” you say, stretching, sarcasm coating your tone.

Angel joins in. “Ah yeah? You’re a regular Liberace now ain’t ya’? Maybe you can get me a candelabra for my piano.”

You’ve seen Angel’s room enough times to remember pink, but not an instrument.

“What piano?”

He looks at you, gesturing at the piano in the room corner. “ _That one,_ dummy.”

Oh. Right. It was a serene object of polished black. Nothing gauche or ornate about it. “I. . . had no idea you played.”

You really didn’t. You thought he meant his Thompson, at first.

He nods, cigarette in mouth. “Ohhhh yeah. Back in the days. First thing I learned how to do for _daddums,”_ he says, making a face at the word.

“He wanted me to do something useful when his mob friends came over, so eh, guess it clicked. I got really good at it too.”

You assume he means when he was alive.

Angel Dust laughs, taking another drag. “Oh shit, then uh. Then I got _too_ good at it and pa' was like, ‘you sound like a queer.’ Like, huh? So, what, I sounded _gay?_ Ya’ ever heard a gay piano, Anon? Cause that’s new to me.”

“I admit, I have not.”

He smiles, before snubbing his cigarette. “Hmm.” His eyes drift for a moments, swimming in thoughts and voices you can't hear. He's considering something, wearing a serious, contemplative expression, a rare look for him indeed.

“It’s how I attracted you-know-who,” he said, standing. You tilt your head.

“The one night stand?" One night they were, but important to Angel all the same, you recall.

He saunters to his molded dresser, and you catch an eyeful of his swinging hips and gently jigging rump. “Mmhmm. Ol’ pump-and-dump.”

You reckon it’s a painful subject. “Sorry.”

He waves you off, opening a drawer and sifting through it, fingers dancing between the still-folded lace and itinerary. “Oh, don’t worry ‘bout it babe. Old news is old news.”

With an 'aha,' he retrieves something, smiling. “Hehe.” You don’t see what, though. You do watch him pause, however, eyeing the mysterious object with a pensive stare, like he’s apprehensive to even hold it. Then, he glances at you, hiding whatever it is behind is back.

“I wanna’ show you this,” he says, returning to the bed.

“All right.”

He sits on the bed edge, pressing the item into your hand. It’s light, like paper, but the edges are burned and it’s quite small, entirely worn down, carrying a smooth, waxy texture. You flip it around.

It’s a photograph. In the image, there’s a smiling young man, with soft features and a bright face, rosy cheeks stretched with a warm smile. His eyes are wide and innocent with a cut of short hair while a thin suit hugs his lean body. He’s waving to the photographer, though you can’t tell where he is, the background a hidden mess of shadows.

. . .

It’s Angel Dust. Or, it _was_ Angel Dust.

“Didn’t think it was still in there,” Angel adds. “Heh.”

It was hard to process this correctly. Why was he showing you this, why here of all places? Was he trying to prove something, or was it just because the photo was so important he  _had_ to share it? Then again, did it really matter? This was clearly significant to him. It was a piece of him - literally. You're touched beyond words. Why you, a petty thief, a manipulator, a greedy creature, a thing of desire, deserved a friend like him, you'd never know. Angel saw something in you that  _you_ didn't, enough that he'd expose himself like this to you, despite your actions, despite what you've done.

“You were adorable,” you say. And he was. Like a sliver of light in the dark. It was impossible to imagine hurting the boy in the image. Somehow, though, someone managed to do it, and god above you wish you were alive to stop it.

“Were!?” He pokes his tongue at you.

“Well. I mean you’re _hot_ now. There’s a difference.”

He lets it go. “Yeah, well. That was when I just started to learn. I ain’t showed that to anyone, either, except for Cherri, so. Don’t go around town shootin’ off about it or I’ll knife ya’.”

You give a warm smile. “Thieves are nothing but secrets.”

“Mmm.”

You look the photo over more. You’re mesmerized by it, and you’re also curious how it ended up in Hell. It’s a tether to the mortal world, after all, and it implies objects of life can coalesce down here.

“Well, you _have_ to play me a song now.” There's no fucking way you're leaving this place without a song.

He leers at you. “What!”

“Well, how do I know you’re not lying?”

He flushes, rubbing an arm. “I’m _not. . .”_

“Come ooooon, I wanna’ hear it.”

“No way!”

“I’ll suck your dick.”

“Shaddup!”

He’s giggling now. “JeeZUS. Tellin' you was a big mistake.”

You make puppy eyes at him. “Please? For me?”

He flips you off, laughing. “Hohoh, fuck youuuu."

It doesn't deter you in the slightest, and you're tempted to make whimpering sounds. Angel Dust chuckles, rubbing eyes.

"Alright, alright, alright!” He jabs you with a finger. "Oh, you fuckin' owe me on this one, smart ass."

Angel sighs, lifting from the bed, resigned to his fate. He saunters to the piano, sitting, clearing his throat. There's something quite appropriate about a naked Angel Dust fussing over a refined piano.

“Agggh, all right. Let’s see. How’d this go?” He wiggles his fingers in the air, trying to remember.

You watch him, entranced. You’ve never seen him do anything like this before, and you’re content to observe. He strikes a few keys, seeking his song. He hums a tune too, in tandem with the key strikes.

“Hmm, hmm.” A few more notes, and a melody starts to form. “At ta ta, at ta taaa. . .”

He nods. “Oh, shit, this was it. . .”

[A melody starts to play](https://youtu.be/PeLuQ6X2ixI). After a few seconds, Angel sings, voice like honey.

-*-

_(0:12)_

_“Win-ter claims, the river_

_Spring days gone, we wither_

_Now, we will wait, my dear_

_For the days, until,_

_We hear, the songs, we would sing_

_By the shore, and the sea_

_And then, maybe then_

_You’ll see, all the gold_

_Is not, what I seek_

_But rat-ther I want to know_

_The days so warm and green,_

_The diamond mossy stone,_

_Lau-ghing by the ri-ver_

_(1:13)_

_Here, now, pass, the winter_

_And spring will kiss_

_Again, here, by, the river_

_Even though I_

_Can’t, see you, by the waterside_

_I, will always, wait for you_

_(2:47)_

_Win-ter claims, the river,_

_Spring days gone, I wither_

_Now, I will wait, my dear_

_For the days, until,_

_We will sing, again.”_

-*-

You’ve never heard Angel like this. His voice carries a sweet, melancholy joy, full of yearning. The yearning you know, that you felt. The memory rushes in, the building at the corner, the men sitting at the table, waiting.

And then, you look at Angel Dust as he cycles through the keys, filling the room with the chiming piano ambiance. The yearning goes away.

He turns back to you, expectantly. “There. _Happy now?”_

With all sincerity, you answer. “Yes.”

He can’t hide his smile, and he flushes, returning to the covers. He snuggles into your frame, sighing. "Good, cause' that's the  _last_ time."

You start to chuckle, his arms slipping around you, your heads pressed together. “What was the melody, anyway?”

“Mm? Eh. Just a song I used to sing.”

-*-

Charlotte Magne peered through her window, watching as a small car pulled up near the building, two figures stepping out. They were quite loud, and stumbled around, arms around the other. One of them threw an empty bottle, the other laughed. She sighed. It was Angel and Anon.

“Well, they’re back,” she said, tugging at her nightgown. Vaggie looked up from her book.

“Please tell me they’re at least not on fire.”

Charlie turned, carrying a weak smile. “Perfectly doused.”

“They came back, at least,” said Vaggie, supportive. “That’s a start.”

Charlie waved a hand. “It’s okay. I didn’t expect them to fall in line yet. They’ll try, I know they will. But no one said this was easy.”

Vaggie came to her friend, smiling. “You won’t be doing it alone.”

Charlie flushed, struggling not to giggle. “It’s uh, actually not what I’m worried about.”

“No?”

Charlie shook her head. She went to her room table, snapping up an envelope. It bore no address, just a name emblazoned in gold: Mammon. She’d opened it before, and within it was a hastily scrawled note.

“This, actually.”

Vaggie blinked, taking the paper, quirking a brow. Her eyes traced over it a few times, but it made no sense regardless. “I don’t get it.”

Charlie’s features shifted from pleasant to concerned.

“I. . . I think I do.”

On the letter were only two words:

[IT’S OUT](https://youtu.be/oG9tG7uDV_k)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You made it! Thanks for reading. As Angel Dust says, "mwah!"
> 
> So, you're here for "that part."
> 
> Angel's Song is something I wrote in tandem with the linked music. Note I am not musically literate, so, it's a bit rough. However, if you want an idea of how he's singing it, his voice is generally in sync with the piano keys. Generally. The lyrics are written in a way to demonstrate the pauses in keystrokes. The time stamps indicate when he starts to sing. Here's an example:
> 
> "Win-ter claims, the river."
> 
> So, win-ter (piano note, piano note) claims (piano note), there's a comma for a pause, and then the river (piano note). It's not perfect, but I hope you can hear it too, at least a little. In this little fiction, Angel's shared something special with all of us. I spent a needless amount of time doing that, but hey, what we do for the affections of a demonic spider, right?


	8. Chatter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angel Dust has a of thinking to do. What's happened, what will happen. But mostly importantly, the matter of you. And lemme' tell ya, he's got a lot to say.
> 
> #8 serves as an intermediary piece from the violence of the vault to now. This one is unique in that it's told entirely from Angel Dust's perspective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't stop writing send help immediately.

**Chatter**

Angel Dust leaned on the fencing of the Hotel’s roof, its bronze, baroque metal crowning the red-stone building like a cage. There were no bars above or around him, no cell to hold him in one place, but sometimes he felt the prisoner. Giving up his habits came with a heavy cost – it demanded discipline, patience, tenacity, qualities he entirely lacked unless it was in regards to something kinky. Didn’t help the view was so mocking – the endless stretch of Pentagram City splayed like a field of bright, violent lights. It was his playground, and he used to call the shots. Angel Dust – criminal aficionado and gangbangin’ mastermind – a reputation he clung to but, deep down, knew was on its way out.

He nursed a cig and a bottle of _Whisker Six,_ a couple of temptations he managed to wrangle out of Husk. Sure as hell wasn’t a snowy line of blow or an exotic _Hibiki,_ but it helped. A little. Fighting the hunger was _hard,_ and he was nowhere near the clean and straight path. But shit, he tried, he really did. The high he’d chase was so, _so_ good, a hot black rush of endless excitement where everything was fucking _amazing –_ quittin’ it for self-help wasn’t exactly a thrill _._ And he was in Hell, the repercussions didn’t stick. You OD? See you tomorrow. Hit so much Krokodil you’re a fresh audition for the _Crypt Keeper?_ Shake it off toots, it grows back.

Nicotine and a 7%? Might as well be church wine and a piece of chalk. He puffed again, soured.

A cartoonish cigarette with eyes and a grin appeared over his head, coalescing in a vapor of clouds. “Hey! Come on Angel! Don’t be mad! I’ve always been there for you, right buddy?”

Angel quirked a brow, staring. “Uhh. . .”

His bottle also formed a face, smiling. “Yeah! Can’t go wrong with ol’ reliable! We’d never hurt you!”

He gawked at them both. He held out the bottle, running his gaze up and down it. “How much have I been drinkin’. . .”

Brrrrr. He shook his head. He snubbed the cigarillo and _carefully_ set the bottle down, like it might force itself to life again, the momentary hallucinations vanishing. Sighing, he reclined on the roof fencing, gaze affixed to the horizon of debauchery. How far did Pentagram City go, anyway? He _never_ saw the city limits. Did it even exist? That’d be a problem – sometimes he thought about making like a leper and going all ‘cast out’, start up a syndicate somewhere fresh. Couldn’t do that if Pentagram City went on _forever._

Eh, nah. He wouldn’t now, anyway. Too many knots tying him down. Charlie and Vaggie were always on his ass, but, they cared about him, even if they were like a pair of doting crones. Husk was a grumpy wino but heh, fun to tease. Alastor was. . . well, shit, whatever he was. Cherri? Total bestie – she’d run a bead of explosives through his ass if she found he was trying to split on his own. You can’t just run from that.

Then there was this other mook. He called himself Anon.

-*-

He’s a real skeeze, I tell ya’. A takin’ taker. Thieves look at the world and say, ‘hey, this is mine.’ It’s a respectable ambition, and I admire the moxy, but it’s greedy. And his is the biggest greedy, getting himself all caught up in schemes, plans, shebangs. Whole nine-yards of stupid. But, _sigh,_ it’s the stupid I like.

Gah, I dunno. Guess I’ve got weak kness for schmucks like him. Shouldn’t. He’s bad for me, bad, bad, bad. But he sticks, and that’s the worst (best) part. He won’t quit me. He tries. He came back.

‘Course he didn’t waltz back like a swingin’ dick with a few inches added. I was cocksure he was six-feet under, for good, suckin’ on fire. The heist, I mean – his little birthday party he royally fucked up. Cherri n’me made an omelette of ah, I’unno, four dozen Eggies (those braindead shits on Pentious’ payroll), and we caught the breakin’ news during our little celebration bender. Guess what? Saw Anon’s handiwork on the widescreen, ala _the whole casino burning down._

I’m glad I was so smashed you could make a cocktail outta’ my blood, cause’ I woulda’ lost my shit. Cried like a bitch, screamed like an asshole, probably blow up a few buildings just for existin’, a whole Broadway production.

I _told_ the dumb bitch to drop it, but not only does he _not,_ he comes home like a Lamborghini from a chop-shop. He should be so damn lucky it was an arm he lost. _Agh._ Kinda’ felt like it was my fault, like I did somethin’ wrong. I thought for sure Cherri n’me would give him enough slack to make a slick getaway, but guess not.

Brr. I adjust myself, tuggin’ my wearins on tighter. Kinda’ weird, but it’s cold out tonight, so I slapped on a snazzy jacket. Tryin’ to get comfortable on these friggin’ rails. . .

Oh, where was I. Yeah, Anon. He’s an idiot. But shit, he’s _my_ idiot. He’s bad for me. But he’s good for me, really, really good.

Anon is. . . my best pal. I look at this two-bit offbrand _Ringo_ and I can tell him _anything._ He ain’t judging me. Ever. For anything. Charlie? Look she’s a sweet little honeybun, big ol’ heart, but she’s starin’ at me as a patient. She sees me as broke, and, it just ain’t the same. Vaggie is too much ice queen, and her nice moments are too far off for me to have “girl talk” with her on the reg. Husk is whatever, a grumpy barhound – er, cat (and I just wanna suck his dick once so I can say I did). Alastor? Hahahahah.

I look out where the _Sugary Chigur’_ used to be. You can still see the fire, cause this is hell, ain’t nobody putting out an inferno. Brrr. Thank fuck. Thank _fuck_ he got out of that.

He listens to me. I mean he _listens._ I speak, I have his attention. He wants me around. I want him around. And, ya know, for all the shit I give him for his dumb plans, as I _rightfully_ should, he’s thinkin’ ahead. Like okay, his ideas are pretty bupkis, but I figure, ya’ know, maybe he can solve it for all of us? Solve what? I’unno. Something we ain’t considering.

Haha, wow, I don’t typically put so much thought into a fella.

I hear a creak. The door leading to the Hotel roof whines open, and out steps the devil himself. Naw, I should be so lucky.

“So you _were_ hiding up here.”

Oh, shit, shitty shit. Play it cool. I glance his way.

“Eyyy, there he is,” I say, gesturing wide. “Hidin’? Me? _No._ Just had to get some of this _fine_ quality air before I lose my collective shit.”

It’s uh, been rough. Cooped up in the Hotel for a day really gets ya’, especially when by about three you’re snortin’ lines off a demon dick or four.

“You’re not trying to smoke signal for a plug, are you?”

Mystery man walks up. Haw, kiddin’. It’s Anon, all dressed up! He’s looking. . . _together._ A bit slower on the draw, his stride is stiff, and the arm bugs him. I can tell, I see it on his face.

“Why? You want dibs?” I say as he joins me at the fencing. My heart kinda goes _thum-thump._ It’s hard fightin’ back a grin when he gets close.

“No sir,” he says, adopting a formal tone, “Only making sure you’re following your regiment, Mr. Dust.”

I clasp my hands together, donnin’ a face oh-so innocent. “Oh I’mma good widdle boy, pwomise!”

He flinches and I cackle. “Please don’t do that again,” he says, chuckling.

“I told ya’, some guys are into it.”

“Not this one.”

I turn, pressin’ my back on the bars. “Well, ya’ checked. How do I look?”

He gazes at me, and I like it when he stares. Can feel those eyes takin’ a stroll over me. Sure, got a long coat on, but I think it’s a snug fit, shows off my figure well enough.

“I like the jacket,” he says. Yeah I bet ya’ do. He points to the bottle sittin on the roof, and I half expect it to start gabbin’ again. “Any good?”

He doesn’t say it in a judge-y way, just a curious way. I know he’s looking out for me (or I hope he is) but, he ain’t gonna ride my ass if I have a little drinky. Not unless we’re in the bed.

I shrug. “It’s an _improvement,_ I’ll put it like that.” I snag the bottle, wiggling it at him.

He nods, thanks, and takes a draft. Then he gets close, like, shoulder-to-shoulder close. Ahh. Fuck. Forget the drugs, this is my kinda’ high. What’s that fancy ass word? Pro. . . prox. . . (snaps) Proximity! Yeah. I like the prox-im-ity.

I side glance, watchin’ him knock one more back. I can’t help but pick up he ain’t using the fancy arm. In fact, it’s just kinda _there,_ like he forgot about it.

“Not bad. Goes down easy.”

“Psh, I didn’t pick. Got Husky boy to throw it at me.”

He rests _one_ arm on the fencing, laughing. “Oh, Angel, what did you do to the poor man?”

I press my hands into my tits, _offended_ I tell you! “Wha! _Me?_ Anon, I just wanted to gargle his cock, that’s all! I kept offerin’!” Boy that really revs up the ol’ barfly. Pretty sure the only thing he’d fuck is an empty whiskey shiner.

“Didn’t take too kind to your generosity, huh?”

“I’ll get him one day!” I say, raising my fist to the sky and turning, looking out to the city again.

More laughs. He sets the _Whisker_ down. _Then,_ sonofabitch sneaks his arm around my waist, getting all comfy-like. _Shiiit._ Oh babe, that’s the good stuff. I feel. . . warm. Fuck, it’s the way he does it too, so casual and certain. Like this is natural. It is natural! I kiss him, square off a little peck on his cheek, like it’s our real greetin. _Hi there,_ says the kiss, _welcome back._ I don’t get it. What _is_ this? What’s this little back and forth we have right now, all snug, watching the heartbeat of the Big P? Like I’ve had some moments with Cherri. We’ve hung off eachother, gottin scuzzed off a tab or two, drank til we threw up (then drank some more), but like. . . I didn’t get _this_ feeling.

“Saw you on the news, by the way,” he says.

“Oh yeah?”

He points to the burning casino pillar. “And I thought I was blowin’ stuff up. You and Cherri. . . what, you took out a handful of city blocks?”

I smirk, rubbin fingers on my coat. One comes to my chin, thoughtful. “Four city blocks, one of Pinchy’s tin cans, a few hundred Egg Bois, and some of those goons for good measure. Think we was hittin’ one of their crack dens with the collateral so they all came a buzzin’. Fun shit.”

 _Did I impress ya’?_ Anon rubs his head, in disbelief. “Pinchy?”

“Pentious.”

He nods. “Huh. How many bangers?”

I figure he means the Gaddys and the Splints. That was their name, right? I shrug.

“Pfffuck I dunno. Kinda’ lose track when you’re flatlining whole streets.”

He looks impressed. Good. “I’m. . . kind of jealous I didn’t go with you.”

I glance at him. Is he bein’ real? Naw. No way. Not my Anon. Not mister poker-face and _I’ve got plans for this city._

I’m really careful about how I phrase this, cause’ we had a little spat over it. Okay, more I like I screamed my head off at em’, but I’m done bein’ mad or feelin’ mad. And, I don’t want him to hurt no more either. That casino job was like. . . well. It was important to him. It didn’t go how he wanted. It’s buggin’ him, _a lot._

“Next time, hotshot. S’long as you wanna give Pentious the dirty-metaphorical-dick, she’ll like ya. You did rob the fucker, after all.” I say it this way ‘cause I don’t wanna’ imply it was me who helped him. He wears pride on his sleeve like mascara on a drag queen.

He goes quiet for a sec, watching the horizon like it’s a five-star show, and I’m the headliner. I think. . . he sees Cherri as a competitor. He wants all the elbow room and she’s got one on the armrest. Don’t know how he’d react if they were sharin’ oxygen, and last thing I want is to see my two besties go at it. That’d fuckin’ kill me. So, I’m axin this particular line of dialogue.

Silence. Uh oh, he’s sinkin’! He ain’t talkin! Sound the alarm, let’s veer ship this somewhere else. I kiss em once more, get _just_ a bit closer.

I ask him, with all sincerity. “How’s the arm?”

Yeah, I know the subject sucks. But I really, _really_ don’t like the way it’s _there._ It don’t move, it don’t flex, like he doesn’t want it. I guess I get that, it’s new. But he’s _gotta_ learn. This is the hand baby, you have to play it.

Now _he_ sighs. “Can I be honest?”

Oh shit. I play it cool, givin him a playful smirk, but I don’t like the way he says that. I put an arm around his shoulder, feeling the hard metal under his coat what used to be _him._

“If you weren’t, I’d toss ya’ off this roof.”

He wastes no time. “I fucking hate it.”

He raises the limb, though it whines at his attempt. He holds out his brass hand and tries to clench it, but it’s shivering, bad. It shudders with violent twitches, as if he’s losin’ control. I can see him grimace, struggle. Finally he eases off, dropping it. Did I poke too hard? Was that over the line?

“Fuck.”

On the inside, I wince. C’mon Anon, _come on._ You gonna’ let this beat you? Don’t fucking mope! Fight through it!

I’ll try a joke. “Shit, I hope that wasn’t _really_ your jackoff hand.”

He pauses, tryin’ to forget.

“No, but. I’ve been seeing Mary and her five sisters a lot, I tell you that.”

Okay. Whew. Still has his humor. Also, _huh?_ What’s _that_ supposed to mean? A dick’s getting grabbed and _I’m_ not around for it?

“What? Too good for me now?”

He looks at me, smiling. There he is! There’s my smilin’ two-bit thief. “I’m not gonna’ bug you every time I need to grease the pipe.”

I give him the ol’ eye flutter, lean in real close, whisper in his ear. “Babe, you can bug me _anytime.”_

And I mean that. I like seein’ him happy. Also I like the fact I make him moan so hard he needs a new pair a pipes. Heh. Well, he’s been rubbin’ em out huh? I’m curious. Can I get him? Can I hook him right here?

“You want me to?” I say. “Mm? Give ya a quick polish?”

Sometimes, it’s the immediate, uh, prox-im-ity of havin’ someone spank your crank. Like, _hey, you can have it, right now!_ In situations where ya’ ain’t supposed to do it, or where you don’t expect it, I think it boils the blood a lot faster. Taboo. Er, I guess in hell that’ don’t mean much anymore, but ya’ get the idea.

He laughs, but it’s one of those _in the middle_ laughs, as in trying to play it off but, probably wants it. Boiling.

“It’s all right,” he says. I ain’t convinced. I slip a hand near his crotch and, ooooh! What’s this! Someone’s up!

“You sure? You _suuure?_ I’ll do it. Jack ya’ off right here.”

I’m right up in his ear. Nuzzling em’, givin’ him a squeeze. I’ve been wantin’ to try this too, this whisper-y shit. On the badweb they got like, these channels where succubus whores make mouth-y noises, like they’re suckin’ your dick. Pretty clever.

He doesn’t say anything, kinda groans. Mmm. He wants it. Thought so.

“Come onnn, you do. Tell me, Anon. Tell me what you want me to do to this daddy dick.”

I kiss him, on the ear. And again. Mwah! Then I _nibble nibble nibble._ He grunts, like an animal waitin’ for food.

He needs to say it, he needs the control. “Just. . .”

Wait for it.

“Just jack me off you fucking twink!”

Anon, oh _my!_ Heh. Got him. Didn’t think he was gonna’ get his prick pumped, huh? Well I’m oh so happy to oblige. I fiddle with his zipper, pullin’ that fightin’ cock out from its pants prison, and oooh he’s solid like a rock. Bat me in the face with it, daddy. Got him in my hand, the other massagin’ his nuts, like I’m given em a throne. Damn, I love havin’ multiple limbs.

“Theeeere it is, that’s it. Atta’ boy.” The grip on my side tightens, cause he’s gotta hold on for this quick ride. That’s right Anon, you keep me close, don’t let go. I got ya.

He grunts again. He’s frustrated. I guess the arm and the heist gone wrong really fucked him sideways, eh? I kinda’ figured he was all better, specially since I played him a song and we got all smoochy smooch. But no. It’s still hurtin. Well, allow me to apply my remedy. Friends help each other, eh?

He’s not even talking, just breathing. I don’t let him speak, then, I want him to lose himself in the moment. Just relax, Anon, just forget all of it.

“Angel. . .”

“Shhh, shhhh.” I start strokin’ with practiced movements, gliding on his inches, squeezing at the tip, rolling my digits around him. Glove I got on is like hot silk, real easy on the skin.

I wanna’ turn this up a bit. The mind ain’t so subtle when it’s horny, and you can add to that with the right words. It’s why all them porno shoots sound so weird when ya’ ain’t looking to wiggle the weasel. Like wow, people talk like this? It’s different when you’re tryin’ to get it _in._

“Ya’ lovin’ it, huh? You like when your faggy twink slut works on daddy’s cock? Ya’ thinkin’ about him right now, choking on it? He’s beggin, Anon, he’s beggin’, he can’t stand it, he needs that dick.”

Oh, I can _hear_ him lose his shit now. Breathing’s faster, cock twitchin in my hand, all wet with his presex.

“Mmm, make me _gag_ anon, choke me on it!”

I figure he’s dreamin’ about it. Nice part is, though, this is like a blueprint to raunchy fucking. Anything I tell him now, I’ll do. Kinda wish I knew how he pictured me in his head. Think I’m in handcuffs? Or chains? Maybe he’s got me on a leash. _Sigh._ So many possibilities.

Little faster now, using my extra arm. So he’s got two palms rollin’ with the rooster, another still caressing his nuts. _Carefully._ More kisses, and I moan hot, girly little groans in his ear, give em’ the whole ride. Gotta play the part of bitch boi just right. And. . .

Pop! Whoo! There he goes!

“Nnnaah!” He buckles, tensin’ up, shooting _himself_ in the air like a wild bull. Careful with that big iron, Anon, ya’ gonna put someone’s eye out!

I stroke still, but slow down. He sucks air through his teeth, cause it kinda hurts. Ever nut _really_ fuckin’ hard and it’s like, painful to keep movin? Yeah, I’m still workin’ on him, but not too much. He opens his eyes, huffing, looking down at the mess we’ve made. I kiss a few more times. Nice and slow, gotta ease him back.

“Angel,” he tries to say again.

“Shhhhhh.” I shoosh him with a softer voice. “Shhh. Relax.”

I don’t want him riled up in the wrong way again. He gets talky and he likes to fight those problems. Not havin’ it. We’ll get to that part in a moment. Anyway, I slip out a hanky and clean him up, before returning his rooster to the coop. _Zzzziiip._

He leans into me, feeding off the afterglow. This is the best part, cause right after ya’ drain the lizard, the uh, um. Fuck, what is it? (snap) Subconscious! Yeah, it looks for a partner. It feeds off affection and shit. You want someone to hold you after ya’ nut. I admit, even after a quckie I always hoped my clients would, I dunno, gimme a quick kiss, a hug, something. _Hey thanks babe, that was nice._ Anything. Spoilers, doesn’t really happen.

“Can I talk?” He breaks my thinking.

“Ya’ want a blowie now?”

He’s starting to laugh. There we go. Yanked him right out of that hole. Problem with Anon is he fancies misery. It’s like a fetish, but, for me, ain’t a turn on. So I have to grab the wheel and pull him off the road, so to speak.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

Arm on his shoulder again. “I wanted to. You needed it.”

I point below us. “I mean shit, you almost hit the sidewalk.”

He keeps going. “Hah. Well, I mean, I don’t want to _use_ you, understand? I don’t want this to be all we have.”

Oh. O-okay. What? What does that mean? _Thum thump._

“Not gonna’ lie Angel, you’re really hard to not think about. I just want _more._ But I also want you as my friend. A close friend. And. . .”

Hey, uh. Shit. Uhhh. Is it hot out here? Whoo. Hoo! Hey, why’s my face getting so red? And? And _what?_

Tryajoketryajoketryajoke.

“I told ya’ babe, I’m addictive.” I try to chuckle. Oh I really try to chuckle. It does _not_ come out smooth.

He takes in a long, long breath. “I came up here for another reason.”

“You wanna’ do a public fuck?”

I am trying _so hard_ to stay calm. I don’t know why. What’s happening? What is _going on?_ Why am I all shaky and shivery and excited?

“What do you think of us right now, Angel? I like what we have. I like it a lot. I can trust you with anything.”

Us. Us? Us! Us. . . I’m sorry. Us? W-what does that mean? What are you _talkin_ about!? Now I’m on the run, like he’s got _me_ in his hand.

I clear my throat. “Oh. Well. You’re my best pal.”

Saying it out loud is different. It’s permanent. He’s never heard me phrase it like that, and, though he probably figured we were close (I mean we fuck on the reg, that’s pretty close), this is like, a confession. He opens his mouth to say something and _stops,_ as if something was about to be said he’d regret _._ He pauses.

“You are _not_ making this easy for me,” he says.

“Oh yeah?” I say. “I’ll make it harder. Ya’ better tell me or I’ll never touch your dick again!” I’m lying. I’m lying a lot. But I gotta’ know what the deal is here.

“Haha. Well. I don’t want to mess this one up. Did it a few times already, so, I think I’ve had my fill of fouls. But you want to, ah, well. Try dating?”

Never in all my unliving years have I heard someone put it like ‘try dating.’ Usually it’s _hey ya wanna get a zip of blow_ or some shit. But “try dating?” Real smooth, master thief. I’d laugh if I wasn’t freaking the FUCK OUT.

I do my absolute best to keep it real, real cool. “Aaahhhmm. . .”

He interprets it all wrong. “I mean look forget I said it, it’s fine. Just a weird thought. I’m happy with being friends with you. But things were going so well and I got to thinking but hahah last time I did that it didn’t out so well right so yeahmaybeforg-”

Finger to his lip. “Shh.”

We have an eternity, as far as I’m concerned. Look, I think Charlie’s idea is pretty cute and will help out a few souls but, redemption? Gettin’ into heaven? Yeah we’re kinda fucked on it, sister. God’s an angry, spiteful prick. So I’ve got all the time I need. What’s the harm in trying something with someone you care about?

Care about. _Fuuuuck me._

Breathe breathe breathe. He said it, not me. Shit, why am I getting all frilly like this? What the fuck!?

“You and me as an item, huh?”

I’ve been with chads with nuts as big as my head. Done all sorts of kinky shit. Had this one chap who wanted me to pretend he was pullin’ off my arms. ‘Nother fella’ wanted me to taze his junk. Upside down blowjobs while I was restrained, four handjobs at once, so on and so on. Ya’ think with all that under my belt, nothin’ throws me off. Well I was wroooooong. It’s like I’m a giddy little boy all over again.

“Where ya’ gonna take me?” I say. He doesn’t understand first, bless his heart. But the implication works him over, and then he gets it.

He doesn’t say anything. Hugs me (with one arm). I give it back. Then the hand comes to my cheek and our lips are pressed together and. . .

Nn, hang on. Little lost right now. Come back in a sec. I’m floatin’. I think I’m kissing him. Oh yeah, I am. Dizzy. . .

 _Blink._ Uh, where am I? Oh, yeah. Rooftop. It’s pretty quiet, save for all the noise of the city. Were we kissing? I kinda faded out. It was all roses and walks on the bloody pier and shootin’ cars off an overpass. Oh. Yeah we were. I blink a few times, I see his face. I look him over, notin’ all them nasty scars on his left side. Damn.

I have a hundred different things goin’ through my head. My heart is. . . my body is. . . I wanna’ feel everything.

“It’s getting cold,” he says. He’s right. He’s right? Huh, weird, don’t remember the last time I was chilly out here.

“Yeah. My room?”

I get another smile. A different one. A smile that looks like a whole different thief. “Sure.”

He starts to move but I stop him. I grip his shoulder, and then tap his not-shoulder. “Hey. Look. But first. Show me this. Show me what happened. Kay?”

Before me and Scarface get real cozy like, acquainted partners of the heart as it were (what a fuckin’ concept), I need to know him again. We gotta’ be one hundred percent, right? Yeah, I knock dicks for money, I ride cocks for cash, but I’m up front with it. Ain’t nothing I hide from him, not anymore. So, he’s gotta’ give it back.

He kinda’ flinches, and he nods. “All right.”

Atta boy.

-*-

Back inside my pink island of drugs and pig. Room is feelin’ extra nice tonight, and Fat Nuggets is on a fuckin’ tear. Little oink is happy to see Anon again, who obliges him with pets and scritches. I’ve got some low-volume shit on the telly – _not_ the news – a bit of homey ambiance, gonna’ find a nice channel. Stashed the jacket, slapped on a long t-shirt that’s, wait for it, _pink._ Sometimes casuals and panties are better than lace.

“Didn’t take you for the foreign arts,” says Anon, givin’ piggy a little belly rub.

I open one of my closets, snaggin’ some extra pillows. “Wah?”

“Back of your shirt.”

Oh. Right. On the back is uh, whatcha callit. Kimmy? Kenbi? Kanji! Yeah. Had a quickie with an oni, cute little fuck, wanted me to do the “v” pose. Gave me a shirt to show his appreciation, ain’t that nice? Only reason I keep is because it was five hundred smackers (and apparently says “Big Dick Energy”). I explain it to Anon.

“Five hundred? Just steal it.”

I sit on the bed, snatchin’ the remote and flipping through channels. “Ya’ can’t just take everything in hell, pockets.”

“I beg to differ.”

Sassy boy. “As do guns on security mooks.” I turn to him, gesturing. This is all filler talk, don’t think I didn’t notice. I pat the bed, gently inviting him over.

“Come on. Let’s have a look.” I don’t say it demandin’ like. Concerned. And I swear, I think I see him tremble, but maybe it’s me.

He sets Fat Nuggets down, who gives a sad squeak, then joins me at bedside. His back is to me and I help him out of his coat. One of my free hands settles on a channel in the meantime, and I hope it can put him at ease. He’s buggin’ out over this.

Well, the coat comes off and all’s okay. The shiny limb sinks into shoulder without a fuss. I mean, it’s not bad lookin, it ain’t cheap. It’s real seamless. Nothin’ horrible, right?

“Hmm.” I glance and see his other hand is makin’ a fist. Tense. “Let’s get the rest off.”

He holds his breath. I get him out of the vest and button shirt, aaaand. Back exposed, he’s bare to me. Anon’s not lookin’ toward the arm _at all._ Like he’s got his eyes averted in the farthest possible direction – any further he’d be an owl. His hand is clenched so fuckin’ hard you can see the knuckle whites and I swear he’ll make himself bleed. Jaw clenched.

Shit, babe, shit, take it easy!

Well, maybe he can’t. I look where the arm fits into his body and it’s. . .

Bad.

The skin is raw, red, irritated. Swollen and inflamed in some spots. Where the shoulder and metal meet are these scars and black veins. They’re kinda’ greenish too, like diseased worms. Fucking fuck me, wow. I press a hand on his back and he flinches.

“Easy,” I say. “S’okay. Just me.”

Huh. I’m no expert on manners o’ dead, exactly. I kill plenty and I know how to carve ya up, so I can’t be sure here. I know what a gunshot looks like, a broken skull, that sort of thing. But this looks like poison, the way it hit, the color of the vein. And, it _also_ looks like his skin needs cleanin. I heard Alastor did the patch job and of course that fuckin’ hack lopped off the arm, didn’t even try to save it. Pyscho prick. ‘Cause of that, Anon hasn’t even gotten to heal.

“Anon, I need to get it off.”

The way I’m sayin’ it, he knows it’s serious.

“Why?” His tone is nervous. Frightened. Tense.

“Need to check ya’. Can’t just slap shit together and call it a night. I gotta’ look ya over.”

His breathing his pickin’ up again. “I. . . no. I’d rather not.”

“Anon.”

Pleadin’ now. “I don’t want you to _see it.”_

I squint at him. “Babe, I’ve seen way, _way_ worse than this, all right?”

He forces a chuckle. “I don’t. I don’t want you to see _me_ like this. I don’t.”

 _Sigh._ I ignore it. A hand comes to the shoulder fixing and there’s uh, what looks like these three nubs lockin’ in place. I twist them, and the limb starts to loosen.

“Angel!”

“Shhhhhhh.”

Again, he holds his breath. While he’s havin’ an episode, I start to pull the arm free. It hisses, but finally comes off. Aaaaaand, drumroll please!

Well. It’s not pretty.

The arm is gone, eighty-sixed. What remains is a timid stump, like, there’s maybe an inch of bicep left. And it’s in _bad_ shape. The flesh is raw, and those black veins I saw are thick lines emerging from the wound point. Where Ally hacked him is a rushed stitched job, and it aint’ doin’ so good. Just cause you’re in hell don’t mean you can neglect an injury, or you’ll get infections n’shit.

Fucking Alastor.

We ain’t through the hard part yet. I rub his back, cool em’ down. Grab your cahones, hombre.

“Anon.”

He hisses. “Is it bad?”

I won’t play games with em’. “Ain’t what I’d call a good look, but, you’ll be alright.”

He’s closed his eyes.

“Anon?”

Here we go, big guy. “I need ya’ to look.”

He don’t know what I mean at first. I tap the left shoulder. Realization.

“ _No.”_

When shit happens like this, acceptin’ is hard. Like hey, how’d ya think I felt when I saw I was a spider? Or when I got a broken bottle of cheap chardonnay jammed in my eye? It’s fucking scary. Of course it is. But, damn, ya’ have to accept it, and learn from it. It’s you. You can’t go back and change the hand. We’d all love a two pair while schmucky schmo over yonder has jack high, but tough luck toots. You’re in Hell.

I get it. If he looks, he accepts it. He gets to see his failure. For real. The arm’s been hiding it. And, ya’ know, a chunk of him is just fuckin gone. But he needs to see it. He won’t do it alone though.

I repeat myself. Softly. “Look with me. Look. Be brave for me, ya’ shithead.”

He struggles. He tries moving his head and he can’t. So I just wrap myself around him. I tell him what he’s got to hear.

“Come on. Take it easy. I’m right here.”

I swear to all-fuck his jaw is clenched so hard I hear a tooth crack.

“Shhhh. Come on. Come on.”

He forces his head to see. Second his eyes are on it, he panics. Part a piece of him not bein’ there, part the stub not lookin’ so great. I know, I know, a doctor would probably scream at me – exposing a ‘patient’ to their predicament. But fuck you, doc, I’m here for him, you ain’t.

He screams through his teeth and I try to get him through it. Fat Nugget squeaks, hides. I can only hold him.

It takes a hot minute or ten before he can collect himself. But by collect, I mean he’s frozen in disbelief. Might be shock too. It’s okay. He needs to process. And I gotta’ work, too, but I think it’s a little beyond me. I got some shit to cleanse the injury and I pick out some rotten skin, but, ain’t an expert. The stitching is just garbage too, that don’t help at all.

Fat Nuggets tries to do something, coming back, nosin’ at Anon’s sides, but our thief o’ thieves is havin an existential crisis. Hmm.

“Ah shit,” I say, pullin’ out what I think is a bit of shrapnel with tweezers, settin it in a bowl of peroxide. “I need help.”

I pat Anon on the cheek. “Stay here, big boy.”

He looks at me, lost. “What now?”

“Room service.”

-*-

I like my guests how I like my clients: with dicks.

Welp, we’re breakin’ all the rules tonight. Vaggie gives me _that look_ as we march up to my room door. She’s got a bag in hand with a big eye on it. Medical junk. I didn’t want to ask her. Literally the _last_ thing, but, here we fuckin’ are. _Sigh._

Don’t worry Anon, I brought the bitchy cavalry.

When we’re at the door, Vaggie grumbles. “Angel, if he’s OD’d because you two swiped a stash of drugs or something, I _swear.”_

I really don’t have the energy. “Just help him. Please.”

That catches her way, way off guard. I don’t ever say please (to her). She still looks about as pleasant as a bootleg Mona Lisa, but she softens up. We go in. It’s the first time she’s been in my room (greeeaaat) and it all hits her at once, cause’ you know, _I know fashion._

“Uh. . .”

She doesn’t have much time for sightseein’ though. When her gaze hits Anon, she freaks, hand to mouth.

“Wha! Oh my god!”

Anon blinks, startled. He looks to her then me as Vag rushes to him.

I shrug, apologetic. “M’sorry toots. All I could find.”

Vag gets all quick like on the fixin’, setting her bag down. She eyes the injury, can’t hide her concern. “It’s. . . gah. How long? How long has it been like this?” she says, glancing from Anon to her tools as she sets em’ out.

“I. . .” Anon ain’t much for words right now. At least, maybe not with her. I close the door, while Fat Nuggets sniffs at the intruder, makin’ fussy oinks.

“Just tell her,” I say.

He breathes. “Don’t know. Since I’ve had it.”

She rubs her chin, features grim. She don’t like what she sees, either.

“Anon,” she starts, ruffling with her parcel and pullin’ out what likes like a piece of wood. Oh, fuck. I know it. That ain’t for show, that’s so ya don’t swallow your tongue.

“I need you to bite down on this.”

I’m kinda annoyed. Hey! I didn’t invite her to hurt him!

“What the hell!” I say, crossing arms. “Ain’t ya got something in that fancy purse of yours for it?”

I don’t wanna’ say ‘pain,’ but that’s what I mean. Pain. A lot of it. Anon doesn’t care, grabs the wood and shoves it in his mouth.

“I don’t have anything to put him under with,” Vaggie says, serious. “Or dull it. I didn’t expect to fix a. . . botched _surgery.”_

What! So what!?

“Well, fuck, whatever! Then go get it! Or _I’ll_ get it!”

“I need to get the stitching out _now.”_

She says this, starts taking out knives, tweezers, cutters, all that shit you don’t wanna’ see. Know that really gut-squeezing feelin’ when you like, are about to go under? Or when you see a dentist get their drills n’ shit? Like that. I hate it.

She looks at me. “Do you want to _help_ or just stare?”

I grumble, defeated. Fine. I mean, maybe I can do _something._ So I waltz over, like I’m some kinda _nurse,_ and Vag preps. Anon? He don’t seem to care.

“I’ll be as careful as I can, okay?” she says to him. But, in a way, I feel like she’s sayin’ it to me.

She straps on some gloves, puts her hand where the fleshy stump is, takin’ a scalpel and. . .

Well. Ya’ get it. Pullin’ wires out from sensitive muscle is uh, exactly what it sounds like. The stitches weren’t tied together well. I get fuckin’ angry, won’t lie, because it’s like Alastor botched this shit on purpose. Anon buries his screams in his throat, but you can tell it hurts. Can’t imagine the feeling. I think he’s biting so hard he splinters the wood.

Vaggie does what she does, stoic. When a stitch comes out, she hands it to me and I set it in more peroxide. She cleans the wound, rubs off dyin’ skin, and gets her own stitches. Anon just takes it, no matter what, but I’m not keen on hearing him in pain.

 I’ll give it to her, she works fast. She’s tryin’ to make this as painless as possible, even though it isn’t. I. . . guess I’m grateful. I give this grey bitch a lot of shit and she returns it in kind, but, fuck, I’m glad she’s around right now.

The stitches are finished, and she sighs. Her fingers trace over the skin now, and that kinda bugs me? Like hey! Stop touchin’ him! He’s mine! But she’s checkin’ out the veins., nothing else.

“Well, the stitches should hold now. Hoping the infection dies off, need some antibacterial for it. But this. . .”

She looks at Anon. “You say this happened because of a lost bet? This is like poison. How’d this happen?”

I blink. Yeah, how _did_ this happen? I realize he hasn’t told me the deets. I know something went down at the casino, but what specifically, he hasn’t said. Then again, ol’ Vag doesn’t _really_ know how the arm went splitsville, so maybe he wants to keep it low profile.

Anon spits out the wood (heh), looking at Vaggie. Then to me. I boggle. He’s. . . he’s gonna’ tell her. I give him a look. Are you sure? Well. Whatever. If he tells her, fine. I’m right behind him.

“Poison. Acid. I don’t know,” he says.

Vaggie shakes her head, slowly. “Were these gang bosses, or something? I’ve been around, this injury is. . . this is combined with holy water. Anon, you don’t just have that lying around.”

Her eye widens. “Oh. Oh fuck. _Was_ it the gangs? The ones you robbed?”

“No.”

Eye narrows. “You have to _tell_ me.”

“Worse.”

He starts to spill the beans. All of it. The casino heist, the vault and then this. . . thing, creepy little demon bitch. I don’t know what it is. Says the room was filled with some kinda’ vapor, and the second this demon skank touches him his arm starts – for lack of better word – melting. Poison gets into his face, in his lungs, his arm, all that shit. Says he stabbed her straight in the head (FUCK yeah!) and got away, or, ol’ doggy got him out. As he explains, it’s like he asked Vaggie to hold his luggage and they’re bags full o’ rocks.

Her face disappears in her palm. She swears some pretty nasty shit in her language.

A huff. “I’ve already chewed you out. I won’t again. I should. _I should._ But at least you’re safe.”

In times like these, a little sauce never hurt. I still got a stash – that _Hibiki_ is soundin’ real good about now – and I pour a glass. Then another. One more. I push em’ to my number one, and Vag.

“Here.”

Vag stares at it, looks like she’s about ready to tear me a new one, then sighs. She takes it, knocking it back, though coughs n’ sputters like it’s her first time with a dick. I hit mine too, gasping.

“Eyyy, not bad, patches!” I say, givin’ her a little applause. “Look at dat, bet ya’ can fuckin’ party!”

Anon’s quiet, but he takes his. Hopefully it gets him on the up-and-up. Hopefully. It’s kinda my fault, I made him take it off, confront it. But shit, babe, it’s never easy. If I didn’t do anything he’d have rotted out, tryin’ to be a tough guy. Idiot.

“You’re not supposed to drink as a recovering alcoholic,” Vaggie says matter of factly. She looks at me, n’smiles. Woooooow. I think that’s the first one I’ve ever seen.

I start laughing. I pour another. “Hey! To sobriety.” I wiggle the whiskey at her, and look at that! She takes one more. Not bad, Vags, not bad.

Anon lies back in the meantime, resting on the extra pillows I got him. There’s a sheet so he don’t bleed on my pink blanket, but I wouldn’t care. Eyes close, and I touch him.

“Is. . . he okay?” I say, alarmed. Vaggie nods.

“Exhausted. He was fighting rot. And pain is tiring.”

Oohf, thank fuck. That’s enough excitement for an hour, eh? I kiss him on his forehead, but I think he’s drifted already. Vaggie watches, surprised.

“Wow.”

I look at her. “What?”

“I didn’t know you two were an. . . item.”

I flush. Oh fuck that’s right she didn’t know! Dammit!

“Wha! I, well. Naw! Look we havin’ even been on a date yet, ain’t like we tied at the hand or anything!”

Her body rumbles with laughter, stroking her white hair. “Hahah, Angel! Wow. Look at you. The big bad crime lord and premiere porn star. Sweet on a thief.”

I open my mouth but, you know what? Fuck it. She can think it if she wants. He’s mine. He’s my two-bit thief.

“Yeah, well fuck you.” I say, snickering.

She raises a hand. “Hey, no judgment. It’s cute.”

I smirk at her. “Is it? Ya’ wanna’ do double date? I will. But only if ya tell me if the carpet matches the drapes with blondie.”

Vag’s features go bright scarlet. “Hn! Hey!”

I raise _my_ hands. “No judgment. It’s _cute.”_

She flips me off. “Asshole.”

I blow a kiss at her. “Mwah! Love ya’ too, darlin.”

It’s quiet after, and we fall into some musins. I guess there’s a lot to think about. After a while, she stands, getting the medical bag together.

“He’ll be okay. Needs a lot of rest. Keep him in bed.”

I wink. “No fuckin’ problem.”

After she gets everything together, she goes for the door, but does the ol’ _dramatic pause before you leave_ thing.

“Angel, I’ll keep what I learned between us, but at some point, I have to tell her. And, I need a small favor.”

I nod, but I’m lookin’ at my empty whiskey glass. “Name it.”

“When you can. . . ask him if he saw something. In the vault.”

She leaves. I hold out my hands. Uh, okay! What the fuck’s that supposed to mean? All this cryptic bullshit, I tell ya’.

Whatever. I settle into my sheets. I snug all close to Anon, makin’ sure his left side is covered all proper like. I whistle the song I used to sing. The prox-im-ity of him. . . nah. Of _us_ is, well. Ain’t nothin’ better.

This is supposed to be Hell?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> u are all shitheads
> 
> i luv you xoxox
> 
> mwah!
> 
> ~angel dust


	9. It's In My Nature

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You, Angel Dust, Vaggie, and Charlie decide a double-date is just what the doctor ordered. Which doctor? Who knows - but the prescription is alcohol, tension, and a dash of sex. After all, it's in your nature.
> 
> But lingering beyond Pentagram City, something isn't right. Something's come back, and it's not good for anyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One does not simply stop writing obsessive fanfiction.

**It’s In My Nature**

You, admittedly, forgot how to do this.

In previous weeks, you mind was a workshop of ideas, engineering the next big heist, planning, plotting, preparing. Valued marks were limitless in the depths of Pentagram City, and in your thoughts, each robbery was grander and greater in scale, an opportunity for triumph. You started with a handful of explosives and fast feet. A bag of cash and a busy sidewalk. From nothing to something; you tore out the heart of the city’s biggest casino – or one of them, anyway. Devil, what a thrill. You felt right. You were good at it. You’re. . . still good at it?

You look yourself over, again. A fancy attire compliments your form, suit vest with button shirt and a pocket watch – a touch excessive, but appropriate for the night. You’ve dashed on a handsome cologne and you even bothered with a ring. Even your mechanical arm is responsive now, free of irritation, and the brass-gold fixture accents your clothing. But this isn’t for a robbery. This is for. . . a date.

You straighten your tie. Hmm. This is good, isn’t it? This is what you wanted? _Of course it is_ , one part of you answers. You have someone special now, someone worth everything. _But it’s no heist,_ says the other. _This it? You going clean now? For good? A nice life of bread and water and the occasional bang?_

Well, it’s an oversimplification now, isn’t it? You challenge this logic. Nobody’s going _that_ clean. That’s ridiculous. Right?

 _Wouldn’t it feel so good to have a gun in your hand, champ?_ The subconscious continues. The id whispers tempting ideas. _The smell of burning cash, sound of gold, the thrill of breaking safes. . ._

Not if it means hurting Angel Dust. Not if comes at that cost.

Your subconscious withers. But it’s not done. _Fine. Fine. But. . . what if you BOTH did it, eh? Criminals in arms? Isn’t it so, so perfect?_

Your pause. You’ve been over this. He’s been over this.

But dreams wander into your mind, ideas of a reality so close, but so far. A quick job. A bank rush. Ripping off mobs, knocking over armored cars, hell, stealing artifacts from museums! Not alone though, not in these grandiose plans – you’ve got an extra set of helping hands – four of them. You and Angel Dust, setting this goddamn city on fire with score after score. Coming home to a suite bought on ill-gotten goods while you chat the night away and sleep on towers of cash. The Bonnie to your Clyde. Then do it all over again.

_Ain’t that such a pretty thought?_

It’s not what he wants.

_How do YOU know?_

ENOUGH. Enough. You quiet this beast, this thing lingering in you. An entity of greed – it still lurks. It’s in you, it’s always been there. Devil. You thought it might quiet down. You thought, after your time with Angel, you’d find something better. And you did! You _did!_ You’ve never met anyone like Angel Dust. No one so broken and imperfect who, still, makes you feel whole. He’s with you, some two-bit alley shanker, some slimy thief taking whatever they please. He doesn’t care, he doesn’t judge you.

But _damn._ It’s hard. It’s hard killing this old habit. It’s all you’ve ever known. It’s all you’ve ever had. You need to be strong for yourself – you need to be strong for _him._

You blink. You’re getting ready for a date and you’ve decided to have a miniature existential crisis. Excellent work.

This is the part where the spider says something reassuring, or calls you a shithead, or just stands next to you, creating a sense of comfort. But, he’s not about at the moment. He, like the others, is “stuffin’ the bra” as he eloquently put it, or in other words, getting ready. This whole thing was his idea – something like a bet? What possessed him to make a wager or suggestion with Vaggie, the Hotel’s watchdog, is beyond you, considering neither you or Angel aren’t quite in her good graces. But what’s done is done – you’re going out with Angel, and so are Vaggie and Charlie.

You haven’t done this in. . . well, since you were alive. And it wasn’t the typical date structure, considering your line of “work.” Thieves don’t date or build cohesive relationships, they have an escort hanging off your arm for a while, like a trophy, until you find something better. What the hell were you even gonna’ talk about? How quick your fingers were? How to crack a two-mechanism safe? How you manipulated and cheated your way through life for personal gain? Or even better, all the close, personal details of you and Angel having a hard fuck every other night?

He barely knew Vaggie. He didn’t even _know_ Charlie, the _Princess of Hell._ What, precisely, do you say to Lucifer’s little monster?

-*-

“Are you. . . _done_ yet?”

Angel Dust grunted. “Be a lot easier if you’d _stop squirming!”_

“I’m not.”

“Ya’ just did it again!”

Seriously, how hard is it to sit still? Angel Dust was confounded. Getting your hair all done up and pretty-like was an art form, requiring patience and precision. But when your subject won’t settle down, it’s a headache. He squinted, tongue flicking on his lips as he focused, nestling a fresh flower in a river of shimmering sable hair. He stuck a pin through it, clipped it close, and _slowly_ drew his hands away.

“There. Shit. Was that so hard?”

Vaggie didn’t respond. She looked herself over in the mirror, flushing. Her hair was brushed, soft as silk, pinned with a flower of deep red. A form hugging dress accented her frame, complimented by a tasteful choker. A little eyeliner, a touch of eyeshadow, even some lip gloss finished the mosaic of “night out.”

Angel Dust nodded, hands to hips, satisfied. “There. Ya’ look ready for the streets there, _hot stuff.”_

“Angel. . .” hissed Vaggie in warning.

“Heh, I’m kidding, mostly.” He pointed at her reflection. “Sure ya’ don’t wanna’ show off a little cleave? Bet blondie would stare at ya alllll night.”

“Angel!”

He raised his hands, defensive. “I’m just sayin! If you’re trying to score some gash tonight you might wanna put on the schmooze. Hmm. Then again, don’t know if Charles in charge is a tits fan or an ass girl. . .”

Vaggie went beet red. “Leave. The. Room!”

Angel Dust laughed. “Touuuchy. Well, just in case, kinda’ lean in at the dinner table, but don’t be so obvious about, so that way-”

“Agh!” Vaggie grunted and shoved Angel towards the door, while he continued, gesturing in the air.

“So that way ol’ blondie can get an eyeful of that fruitbasket, and then like, brush your hair behind your ear and she’ll-”

SLAM. Angel Dust laughed on the other side. “ _I’ll meet you downstairs!”_ he shouted.

Vaggie returned to her mirror, blinking. She looked good, right? R-right?

“Hmm.” Grumble grumble. She glanced at her chest, pressing the girls together. Grumble grumble.

-*-

“Is this okay?”

“Bah!” bleated Razzle.

“Bah,” chimed Dazzle.

The duo watched Charlie Magne, daughter of Hell, pace back and forth, her hands pressed together, fingers winding about in anxious strokes. Kind of like a tennis match. Back, forth, back, forth. She wore a formal, yet complimenting red suit, similar to the one from her television appearance. It provided prudency, yet hinted at her gentle curves, tempting with its lack of show.

Her wide eyes went to them. “Are you sure?”

“Baaaaaah,” sighed Razzle.

“Bah, _bah,”_ nodded Dazzle.

Right back to pacing. Dazzle grabbed himself a popcorn bag, munching as Charlie went to and fro, desk to door.

“I’ve never been with Vaggie like this,” she muttered. “I haven’t even left the Hotel since I started!”

She pulled out a line of hair. “Aaaah! Is this a gray hair!?” Palms to lips now, then pulling on her cheeks, features stretched.

“Am I a workahoooolic!?

“Bah!” snickered Dazzle.

“ _Bah,”_ chastised Razzle, jabbing his fellow Goat Boi with elbow.

“WhatamIgonnatalkabout!?” she continued, sputtering. “Oh, but what if Angel hates me now!? What about Anon, I barely know Anon. . .”

Dazzle snorted. He fluttered to her, grabbed her face, and stared her down. “BAH.”

She stopped. Dazzle pointed at the door. “Baah. BAH! Baaaaaah.”

Charlie blinked. “I. . .  y-yes. You’re right. You’re right! I can do this. I owe it to the others. I owe it to. . . Vaggie.”

Dazzle crossed his arms, hovering. “ _Bah.”_

She rubbed her head, straightening her gold locks. “Hah. I guess I am acting a little silly. Um. You two can take care of things while I’m gone? I’ve got my phone if anything goes wrong and there’s an emergency number downstairs, oh, and I think there’s a saferoom, ask Husk about it, and Alastor is around, with the, er, other fellow, and I think-”

Dazzle pushed his hoof against her mouth.

Charlie nodded. Right. Time to. . . go on a double date! Hahah, haven’t done in it yeeaaars but that’s okay, hahahaha. . .

Wordlessly, she left the room, heading for downstairs. Raz and Daz watched her go, waiting until her footsteps were no longer audible. They gave each other a mischievous glance.

“Bah!?

“ _BAH!”_

Once the coast was clear, they scampered off in search for donuts and sweets.

-*-

Door knocks. You didn’t even hear them.

It creaks open and in steps the familiar click of kinky boots, accompanied with the dreamy scent of expensive perfume and harsh char of a cigarette. Angel Dust peeks in, glancing at your silhouette.

“Hey, hot stuff, ya finished puttin’ on your makeup? We got places to be!”

You blink. How long were you looking yourself over? A while. But only because you were lost in thought. You turn, seeing your date’s features through the door sliver. When you do, his eyes light up, whistling. He pushes in, coming to you.

“Aww. Look at you.” He drops the harsh, back-and-forth with and offers a sincere smile. “This is real nice, pockets.”

You push aside your contemplations. “I thought I’d try another suit.” You _only_ have suits.

“Nuh huh,” says Angel, gaze wandering over you. Hands come to your neck, tightening tie. “Did this all wrong, smart guy.”

He fusses over you as you lift your chin, letting him fix the tie. You can’t help but stare. He’s enticing, like he’s surrounded by a rim of pinkish-white light, and his eyes are terribly inviting, complimented by mascara.

He notices, finishing. “The hell ya’ looking at.”

“You’re very pretty,” you say. “Did your hair?”

It seems to catch him off guard. “W-wha? Oh. Ahem. Yeah. Uh. Yeah I did.”

He exchanges subjects quickly, flushing, tapping your prosthetic. “How’s this feelin’?”

You flex it effortlessly. “Much, much better. Doesn’t hurt to move.”

He beams. “Goooood.” Angel licks his thumb, carefully pressing it against your left cheek. You don’t resist as he inspects it, glancing over the snaking scars.

“These buggin’ ya?”

You shake your head. “No.” Not physically, anyway.

A part of you secretly feared this was too gruesome, even for Angel Dust. A missing arm, a broken body patterned with ugly scars. Angel Dust was always so kept together and fanciful, a taste for everything glitzy and pricey. Why settle for less?

He didn’t care though, smiling. “Hehe. Ya’ gonna steal my look, Anon,” he says, tapping under his black sclera eye. Indeed, Sarin’s chemical hurt you deep, and your left vision suffered for it. Soon, it’d be a shade of jet, just like him.

“I think I’m a _little_ far off to copy you, Angel.”

He snickers. “Psh. Don’t sell yaself short. Lipstick and lace do wonders.”

You pause. He’s close, very close. Warmth radiates between you two.  “Lipstuck, huh. And uh, what kind are you wearing?”

It takes a moment for the question to sink, but once it does, he wears a half-lidded gaze. You can tell he’s considering what you imply.

He leans, voice low. “Uh. Heh. Anon if we explore ya’ little inquiry we ain’t gonna make it out of this room.”

“Is that a problem?”

He offers a playful sigh, whispering into your ear. “It’s the kind that leaves a smear.”

He pulls back, tugging your hand. “Now come on ya’ fucking horndog, we gotta go. Not about to get bitched out for making us late.”

You breathe. You have to. Hard not to just take him right here and now.

Angel and you stroll to the entrance, where you meet the others. Charlie and Vaggie are there, though faces aflush. They’re next to each other, but in an uncertain kind of way. They steal glances, hiding bashful smiles, attempting formality, but you can tell, they’re a few words from ripping each other’s clothes off. Alas, first there’s a dance, and it’s called dating.

“Oh, Anon!” says Charlie, clapping her hands together. “You look nice!”

“Yourself as well, Miss Magne,” you say with a head nod. Vaggie even gives you a small smile.

Charlie waves you off. “Oh, gosh, please, just Charlie.”

Angel Dust looks the pair over. “Wow, that’s a lotta clothin. Gonna make it harder to get it off, ya know?”

You give Angel an exasperated look.

“Whaaaaat?” he says, innocent. He makes no attempt to hide his wicked grin. Vaggie rubs the bridge of her nose.

“This was a bad idea.”

Charlie clears her throat. “Yes, em. Well. Let’s go! The driver is waiting.”

You don’t know your destination, but you figure it’s been planned already. Now comes the rest. The part where you play things as a normal person. Not as a thief, not as Anon: Master Thief. Just Anon. You think, briefly, why this? And then Angel puts an arm around your back and you remember why.

Outside, the sky is painted with its usual strain of reddish pink hues, glistening off the asphalt and the waiting vehicle. A slick black car rests at the front, rumbling in wait, big enough for the four of you and probably some extras. No doubt an easy call for someone of Charlie’s stature. As you approach, she pulls open the door, holding at a hand to her beau.

“Miss Vaggie,” she says, wearing a playful smirk. Vaggie looks surprised, blushes again, but thanks Charlie and enters. The tension between these two – even you can feel it.

 You enter with Angel Dust as the cab speeds off, the both of you doing your best not to chide the other as they gracefully  _attempt_ to keep themselves under control.

-*-

A screen flashed with trumpeting fanfare, massive banner scrolling over it in theatrical display. A massive bluish icon took center, burning with the proud title CHANNEL 666.

“Good evening vagrants and vagabonds, I’m Katie Killjoy!”

A sinister demoness of snow-white flesh, prim blonde hair, and form-hugging suit sneered at the camera, while her counterpart offered an equally enthused greeting.

“And I’m Tom Trench!”

“And we’re the Six-Sixteen news!”

An immediate secondary box appeared on the screen corner, depicting images of chaos throughout Pentagram City.

“More trouble today in the big PC as everyone’s favorite gathering of gambling finally burned to a cinder,” said Tom. “No one bothered to put out the fire, so _everything_ was lost. Looks like the house _doesn’t_ always win!”

“That’s right Tom!” cut in Katie. “And that’s not all! Billions in invested wealth went right up in smoke, taking a fortune with it! Many prolific gangs across Pentagram City are as poor as paupers now. That means territory is _ripe_ for the ripping!”

Tom laughed. “Wow, now that’s a bummer _._ Looks like playing the odds was a _terrible idea_ , suckers!” he chimed, pointing at the screen.

“You are a _real_ bitch, Tom” Katie chuckled, maintaining her professional grin. “But that’s not all! Top mob bosses have been found by the dozen, dead and maimed. We’ve got an exclusive with one of their survivors!”

Footage flashes. A thin, balding demon in a blood covered suit stares at the screen, panic stretching his features. “What are you DOING!? LET ME GO! DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT’S COMING, DON’T YOU KNOW WHAT’S ABOUT TO HAP-”

It fades, the anchor pair laughing.

“Looks like _he_ didn’t take his losses so well,” mused Tom.

Hox blinked. Not at all.

He leaned back in the couch, tapping the armrest, nursing a drink. More footage rolled on the screen, including camera shots of the van – _his_ van – punching through the entrance of the _Sugary Chigurh._ The recording didn’t last, soon obscured by fire and poison clouds, and there was only the briefest glimpse of four shadows leaving it before ensuing chaos. But it was them.

“Here’s to you buddy,” he said, raising the glass. “You hit the big time.”

Hah, if only right? Boss was always going on and on about big plans and reputation. Hard to yank that out of a few static images and lost footage. A damn shame. But on the plus side, their faces wouldn’t be plastered on every corner of Pentagram City as a bounty – not like it mattered much. Gadzooks and Splinters and devil knew who else were done, at this point. How many deep pockets got burned in one night, he never knew, but without capital muscle to shove around, their operations were kaput.

And _one_ bag to show for it.

The television flicked to commercial as Hox knocked his bourbon back. “Quite a display, eh ol friend?”

He nearly spit.

Like a shadow creeping out of the dark, a figure appeared at his side. Or, maybe coalesced, because a second he wasn’t there, and then he was. A dapper, malicious yellow grin plastered his pale face, Alastor stepping forth as he watched the screen.

“Must’ve been quite the rumble!” he continued, crackle of static shading his words. “Such a display of brutality and cunning! Why can’t more people be like you and your chum, eh?”

Hox flicked his eyes to the intruder, annoyed. “The hell do you want, Al. Trying to forget you exist.”

Alastor wore a face of feigned shock. “Oh! You wound me, sir!”

He strolled in front of Hox, sneering, looking down at him. Much like a man looks at an ant.

“I’m just here for a friendly heart-to-heart, must put a pin in this humdrum! It’s quiet when no one’s about!”

Hox groaned, looking away. He hated those eyes – possessive and domineering. No point in trying to blow him off. Al was easy on the words until he started making subtle threats. “Yeah. Sure. So, what’s on your mind, _Al?”_

Alastor made a wide gesture behind him. “That, actually! What a peach of a job! Bravo, bravo to all of you! No one’s given you round of applause, have they?”

He gently clapped his hands, but in mocking fashion. “Put a fork in that holiday goose, mm? Now the city’s looking like a circus without its elephants!”

Hox forced a smile. “I’m a professional.’

“So you _are._ Tell me, find anything interesting in that vault?”

Hox got the impression Alastor was hunting for something. Not like the Radio Demon was making genuine inquiries or small talk. And frankly, if you were the type he _wanted_ to talk for an idle back-and-forth, _brr._

“Gold and cash and the usual shit, nothing out of the ordinary.”

Alastor’s grin faded by a hair. “Hmmm.” He rubbed his chin with a manicured digit.

“So, our mutual, one-armed wonder didn’t tell you, did he?”

Hox blinked. He didn’t know what he meant. At the same time, he didn’t rightly care.

“Who? The boss? He’s not the talkative sort.”

Alastor chittered with chuckles. “Oh, of that, I very much doubt. He just fancies conversations of the ‘flamboyant’ sort, if you catch my breeze. Oh, and I dare not judge! No sir, not I! I greet all couples with open arms, because after all, they’re the _same in the end.”_

Something about the phrasing sent a cold chill through Hox, but he didn’t pursue. Guess he was referring to Anon and ol’ kinky boots.

“But I digress. . .”

He turned, looking at the screen. “See the old gent right there, all face o’ flutter with fear?”

For a brief moment, the howling old demon from before appeared again, screaming about something or another.

“Yeah.”

Alastor’s head tilted. “I’m afraid our friend with the fast hands might’ve let something out he really shouldn’t have.”

Hox paused, staring at Alastor. Was he serious? The way he phrased this sounded. . . concerned. Holy shit. If something bothered Alastor, then _what the fuck was it?_

“Good news and bad news!” continued the Radio Demon, throwing his arm. He returned his scarlet eyes to Hox.

“You’re employed again, hohoho!’ he said. Hox swore. Ah fuck him the ass with three dicks. That wasn’t the bad news, huh?

“And?”

Alastor blinked. “If what I think got out, _is out. . ._ that’s bad for _all of us,_ hahaha!”

A dread something gripped Hox’s chest. Was this a joke? Was he being real right now? Who, or _what,_ could cause concern to the Radio Demon? What the _fuck_ was inside that goddamn vault!? Know what, he’d rather not know.

“I hope your friend is all rested up, because we’ll need his particular talents again. Very soon.”

Hox tried to keep calm. “What for?”

“In time, my dear boy. In time.”

-*-

“I didn’t even know you could go this high. . .”

Vaggie looked out the massive pane windows, overlooking the vista of Pentagram City. As always, the hellscape below was awash in pink and red, black silhouettes of buildings popping forth like rectangular fingers, stretching into an endless horizon of light.

Angel Dust snickered. “You’re not smokin’ the right stuff.”

Vaggie was too entranced to notice the remark. Charlie, meanwhile, beamed.

“I thought the view might be a nice change of pace,” she said, smiling at everyone.

Indeed, thanks to Charlie’s reputation, she had snagged the entourage some ritzy seats at one of Pentagram City’s more popular restaurants: Sinai. Things were fancy (as fancy as Hell could get, at any rate), reserved for elite clientele, and you couldn’t get more elite than Lucifer’s daughter. As such, the four were seated next to a massive window, complimented by black leather seats and regal finery. The atmosphere was calm, populated with elite tiers of demons of varying shapes and colors – calm for the standards of the underworld.

“You know how to pick them,” you compliment. Indeed, there’s something nice about it, familiar.

Charlie blushed. “You all like it?”

Angel Dust leaned back in his seat, clicking his teeth. “I’m impressed.”

“It’s great,” added Vaggie, looking to her date, with _more_ blushing. You did your best to hide an amused smile. All these two needed was a bit of wine.

Wasn’t long before you ordered. Your waiter – a demon with a preposterously thin head – approached with a menu. There were dishes suited for everyone.

For Angel Dust, it was a dish of Panzanella (I’m watchin’ my figure!), Vaggie grabbed a light Pastelon (Tastes like home), and Charlie nicked a vegetable stir fry (I don’t want to know they use for the meat. . .).

You kept it simple. A rare pan seared steak strip with potatoes, stuff o’ the sinner, nice and red. As for drinks, a variation of alcohol and, well. Mostly alcohol.

Vaggie and Charlie were lightweights, the poor dears. Not that you blamed them, they had no reason to bury their troubles at the bottom of a brown glass. But as they sipped, they notably loosened. For Angel Dust this was a warm up. You? Well, spend enough time with grim-faced killers and thieves and you learn – very fast – you better drink with the best of them, otherwise, you’re a weak stomach and not right for the job. Doesn’t matter if the fancy bourbon tastes like fire and window cleaner, you get it down you.

About a couple glasses in, Charlie was feeling it.

“And you know, _you knoooow,_ they all doubted me. Everybody. Evverrybody,” she said, defiant. “No _way_ you can save people down here!”

Her movements were exaggerated, and she was for more giggly than before. “But I said _no way!_ My people are good people. They’ve got, erm, a rainbow in them. Rainbows and puppies.”

Angel Dust was _fighting_ back laughter. Not because he intended to mock her, but tipsy Charlie was nothing short of amusing. Vaggie watched, eyes stuck. Alcohol makes short work of prudency, and she was clearly enraptured by the princess’ words. Or maybe it was because she was in proximity to Charlie's gentle, curvy frame.

“Thank goodness for my friend here!” Charlie said, gesturing wide, grabbing Vag by the shoulder, pulling her close. “Oh, but, I guess we’re a pair now cause of the date, hehehe!”

They were cheek to cheek. Vaggie was blooming so pink she almost returned to a living hue.

“Uh, r-right, it’s been tough!” Her eye struggled to maintain focus and not linger on Charlie’s bust.

“Aww, ain’t that somethin’,” said Angel, clapping his hands. “That’s right Chuck! You tell em’ what for! Give em’ the ol one two fuck you!”

“Yeah!” said Charlie, empowered. She bumped the table with her fist. “Fuck em’!”

You give a hearty chuckle, raising your glass. “Fuck em.”

Vaggie blinked, shocked at her beau’s lack of control. But she joined in too, raising hers. “Yeah. Fuck em.”

Angel Dust looked between everyone. “Who we fuckin’ now?”

Glasses clinked. More alcohol down. By this point, Charlie was well beyond sober. Well, good for her. You didn’t get to talk much with the Daughter of Hell, but she struck you as surprisingly genuine. Who, in all the underworld, would do the unthinkable? Try to save the unsaved? Hell was the last stop. Your punishment for a lifetime of sin – yet she believed, despite everything, souls were still worth redeeming. For that, deserved some time off.

Charlie leaned into Vaggie, giggling still, glancing at her friend’s chest. “O-oh. Vaggie these are pretty big.”

Angel Dust gave a knowing smirk.

“H-how much have you had, Charlie?” Vaggie asked. Charlie’s eyes rolled, thoughtfully.

“Uhhhh, not enough.”

Clearly. In purpose of stress relief, alcohol loosened tongues, and Charlie was content to discuss the problems she faced as the daughter of the Devil.

“Nobody backed me up,” she’d say. “’Cept Vaggie!”

Vaggie cleared her throat. “It’s nothing. Sometimes we just need a friend.”

“One hell of a friend,” you complimented. “Takes a lot to stand for something down here.”

“Yuh huh,” chirped Charlie. “Saaaaaay, speaking of friends.”

Now her eyes came to you. “Anon, ya never told me! You came to the Hotel, didn’t you?”

You blink. You keep a smile, nodding, but it falters, only just so. “I did.”

“Yeah, that was great. I was so happy Angel found somebody who needed help. Must’ve been a big decision! To want to be better!”

You pause. “Oh. Well, sure. Everyone deserves a second chance.”

“He just needed a little convincing,” laughs Angel Dust, prodding you, hinting at your first “encounter.”

But, this doesn’t sit right with you. Maybe it’s the alcohol, or the nature of this outing, or how reflective you’ve been since the vault.

What are you _doing_ here?

The deepest corners of your head laugh. Redemption? Hahaha, what a nice cover story. You don’t live at the Hotel because you sought _redemption._ You needed an easy hideout while you went from mark to mark. After all, who’d mess with Lucifer’s little monster?

And in this processing, a strange realization starts to take you. You aren’t here for the right reasons. Everyone in the Hotel, in their own way, is seeking a better life. Well, aside from Alastor. You are still – despite your protests – a thief. This entire conversation is an indirect result of your manipulation. You’re a liar. Right now, do it, lie.

“Angel has a way with words.”

You can lie to them, but not yourself. You still hunger, don’t you? You want it all. The only person to change your motives was Angel Dust. You’re here because of him. Only him.

“It’s hard changing who we are,” continues Charlie. “But you have to keep trying.”

The thinking stops. Charlie’s looking at you, in a way no one in Hell has ever looked at you before. Her smile is welcoming, but her eyes are. . . terrifying. Because it’s as if they _know._ Like she’s looking _into_ you. Questioning, perceiving.

Who’s stronger then, you, or your _nature?_

Vaggie cleared her throat. Likely she suspected your motives – at least in the beginning – weren’t of good intent. So, she veered the conversation somewhere else.

“Speaking of trying. . . how’d you two even become a thing?” she said, fingers pointing between you and Angel.

You hesitated. Angel, however, knocked one back and laughed.

“Huh? Oh. Pretty simple really, jacked him off a few times and he was awestruck like a little puppy.”

Charlie hid her laugh, flushing. “R-really?”

You rub your head, pouncing away from your previous line of thought. “There’s a bit more to it than that.”

He snickered, kissing your cheek. “Is there?”

Not like you could open up and say, “well, we met when I paid him to deepthroat me and then I started stealing so I could pay him to keeping sucking my cock, and from there we kinda’ had a few meaningful conversations.”

“Angel the amount of chicos you’ve been with is. . . a record. What’s special about him, really?” Vaggie asked, not phrasing it in the way to insult, just to sate curiosity.

Angel Dust glanced at you. “He’s a reaaaaal good listener, I’ll put it like that.”

When it was clear he wouldn’t say more, Vaggie peered at you, perhaps trying to find answers for herself. Probably _was_ a strange thing Pentagram City’s most popular whore was – as it appeared – going steady with someone.

Conversation resumes, but the dizziness of drinks is setting in. No particular subject finds purchase and, as is the nature of talking, the four of you jump from subject to subject. As you do, there’s something catching your peripheral attention. It’s been there, you think, since you arrived. Someone’s been watching.

At first, you brushed it off as surprise. After all, the Princess of Hell was in the company of an infamous adult-film star, quite a sight. But they kept glancing, all night, this stranger, sitting at a table not too far from this one. Their scowl wandered to you, then Angel. Specifically Angel. You stole a few stares yourself. The silhouette of the demon was a scrappy thing, a thin figure of scruffy form with ugly, mean eyes. He wore a grimace and a cheap suit. Part of you wondered if he was some surviving mobster. No matter the reason, though, you sensed trouble. He was out for something – and if he had friends, it’d get worse. Maybe he was waiting for Charlie to get drunk enough to do something.

Territories were open, exposed like fresh wounds. Anyone could make a move on anybody, and what better way to send a message then brain one of the biggest criminal names in Pentagram City? Even though Angel was working to put his violent past behind it, others still believed in the mythos of his destructive, lusty persona.

You clenched your fist, leaning into Angel. “I’ll be back,” you say politely. None of the others sense a problem. You intend to keep it that way.

You excuse yourself and head for the men’s room. You didn’t look back, but you could _feel_ him move, following.

Inside, you wait, washing your hands. Doesn’t take long for the chap to show up, closing the door, and you hear him lock it. Poor boy.

You glance at him. He’s scraggly, covered in unkempt fluff. A lot like Angel, in fact.

“If you wanted to threaten me,” you say, “You really should’ve brought a bigger friend.”

You’re no scrapper by any means, and a thief isn’t stupid to stick around for a long fight. But this chap doesn’t have size on you, and he looks young, despite his strange arachnid-complexion.

You look at him. He’s positively brimming with hate, opening his coat, yanking out a knife.

“Brought one.”

He flips it through his fingers. “Didn’t think that faghag would be stupid enough to bring a bitch into our territory again, but here we are.” His voice was low, like a cold whisper, but draped in malign contempt.

You peer at him. “Haven’t I scraped you off the pavement before?”

He takes a step. “Never seen you, fuck boy. But if you’re hanging off that worthless prick pumper I don’t need to. What a disgrace.”

You blink. No, he’s not one of the gang members, and you realize he’s referring to Angel.

“Really? Slurs? Isn’t’ that a bit quaint for hell?”

You size him up. One knife anywhere in you is not good. And as it looks, he’s got a few limbs. Limbs? He’s a spider then? Is he. . .

“You mouth off a lot, just like him.” Another knife flip. “Guess ya’ good at it when you’re suckin’ dicks for dope.”

One more step. “Tell ya’ what. If you blow me, right now, I _might_ just let you walk outta’ here with your balls. But if you don’t slurp me like Sally down south I’m gonna snip those nuts and force that she-he slut to eat em’.”

Arrogant, angry, archaic. A lot of focused hatred towards Angel. He knew him. A part of you wonders if he was family.

What mattered more was the presence of danger. Where there's one, there's always more. Were others waiting in the shadows of Sinai, looking for an opening? Or outside? Who did he report to?

“You’re creative, I’ll give you that.”

You flex your metal arm. Looks like it might come in handy after all.

“So that’s a no, faggot?”

You ignore it. Temper does you no good here, and it's a great way to get the _wrong_ kind of poke. “Ever been fisted?”

Didn’t take much to set him off. You’ve got two seconds to move, cause he shifts quick. But he’s not smart about it, and he telegraphs his lunge like an idiot. You’re lucky – he’s no good at this at _all._ Any bigger or swifter and he'd likely make a nice, meaty cut. Your metal prosthetic comes up to receive the blow, stuffing his attack, while the rest of you throws yourself into him and forces him on the floor. Thankfully, he's light. 

He struggles damn hard, and he’s got extra hands trying to shove the knife into you, but you hold him. For now. The prosthetic is surprisingly resilient, hissing as it keeps his wrist locked. You shake him, battering his head into the cold ground.

“Didn’t know you liked being a bottom,” you hiss through clenched teeth.

Sounds of struggling rolls between you both as your forms try to gain leverage. But you give no ground and start clenching his wrist, loosening his grip. Harder and harder until you hear the click and pop of exoskeleton. He starts to scream, the knife falling from his fingers, and you take the opportunity to shove your other arm into his neck. He squirms, pushing against your face.

“Fuckingfaggotshitfuck!”

You ball your metal limb into a fist. But you don’t punch him – you start pressing it into his mouth.

Careful Anon. You’re on the up and up, right? You’re trying to leave the path that consumed you, the one of greed and violence. You want to be redeemed, right? You have to keep trying, right?

You don’t. A renewed sense of violence finds purchase in you. That dark, immediate black hunger aroused from rage. Not from threatening you, but because he threatened something close to you. 

“I don’t like the way you to talk.”

Your force your fist into his maw, much to the deliberate agony of your spidery assailant. But it’s too big, so naturally, it stretches his jaw too far. He gags, spitting and bleeding, as his bones separate and crack. His eyes water up as he realizes what’s happening, frantically trying to push you off.

Finally, his movement stops, because he’s paralyzed from your actions. You hold off too, but your fist has inflated his mouth. Any further and you’ll start diving into his throat. The hungry beast in you stirs.

_Come on now, do it. What’s stopping you? You’ve killed before. He’s just another smear on the wall._

No. You can be better than that. You don’t need to.

_Do it for Angel._

Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare try to use him for this.

_Really? He means so little to you then? Listen to this guy. He’s crazy. You heard what he was gonna’ do._

Stop.

“What’s ironic,” you say, holding your foe, “Is this probably wouldn’t hurt so much if you sucked a cock or two.”

_Hmph. Disappointing._

You grab the knife. You don’t know who this is, but you can guess.

He’s looking at you, wide eyes full of fury. If you let him go, he’ll scurry for help later. If you kill him now, they might go for Angel instead.

Fuck.

“If you ever come near me or Angel again, I’ll shove this thing up your ass. Understand?”

He nods, grimacing, but he’s doing it to save his skin. This won’t change him. It’s his nature. His eyes might be wincing in pain now, but they're still charged with hatred. Any friend of Angel is an enemy of his, that was clear enough.

You _rip_ the fist out of his maw, and it dislocates the jaw, sending blood and teeth everywhere. He moans, howling in agony, pounding the ground with his arms as pain consumes him. You go back to the sink, washing your metal limb, ignoring his desperate pleas.

You unlock the door, stepping over him. This might come back to bite you.

When you return to the group, it’s like nothing ever happened. Angel’s had another drink while Vaggie and Charlie have loosened up considerably. They’re happy, chuckling, lost in conversation. You look at Angel, smiling.

“I think we should go,” you offer.

He blinks. “Nnuh? Really? Was about to grab another bleeding mimosa!”

Charlie whines. “Awww, but the night’s so young and I’m having fun!”

You need to get them out of here, quick. So, you try something else. “There are other ways to have fun, you know.”

Angel Dust blinks. Understanding, he starts to chuckle. “Well toots, ain’t that just downright filthy?”

Charlie wiggles against Vaggie, uncertain. “Huh? Hahah, what’s happening?”

Vaggie quirked a brow, holding Charlie. “Yeah? What do you mean?”

Angel Dust gave them a mischievous look. “Ever tried a dirty quartet?”

-*-

Pentagram City was no stranger to vices, especially not the most coveted of them all: fucking. Every other corner was a sex shop or brothel of some kind, for whatever the mind might desire. Hotels (no, not _their_ hotel) were also prominent, or rather, quick stops where a pair might find some privacy for a nice romp.

Here, the logic was the same. Once Angel Dust cracked open the door, it was all too apparent what was in store. He pulled you along, kinky boots clicking in easy stride, followed along by Vaggie and Charlie. It was another ritzy affair, in the better part of West Side (if such a thing existed), regal and bathed in warm light. All that mattered, really, were the beds.

Charlie walked gingerly with her partner, eyeing the sheets as she strode past you.

“Are we really-”

Vaggie attempted to speak but was swiftly cut off by the press of Charlie’s warm, soft lips. Vaggie squeaked in surprise but didn’t take long before she returned with a powerful embrace. Alcohol and smoldering desire made good bedfellows and it was about time to the two cut out the tension.

“Don’t be starin’ too long, pockets, I might get jealous.”

Angel catches your attention. Ah, sweet Angel, always your source of comfort and addictions. You meet him with your own kiss, but it’s more controlled. Teasing. You two have done the dance many times now, so there’s appreciation in how your lips meet.

Not long and you’re on your back, slipped out of your clothes. Angel Dust is the same, bearing his delicate, curved form to you, sitting atop your waist. The slopes of his plump rump squish against your abdomen, while his free hand strokes your face. This is the part where you two enjoy the quiet, were it not for your entourage.

Vaggie and Charlie are not of the same prudent opinion. They strip each other, hungry, letting hands caress and explore their soft skin, white meeting sable. It’s probably their first time, so you don’t blame them. In this dance, Vaggie is first, bringing her lover to the bed, pressing her to back, lips and tongue tracing over every inch of Hell’s daughter, until she mouths at her cleft.

“O-oh, Vaggie, you’ve never. . .”

She’s cut off by her own moan as Vag slips her tongue into the pink tunnel, suckling at clitoral nub. Charlie’s form stretches and arches, at the mercy of her counterpart’s act.

“I think they’re tryin’ to race us,” commented Angel, his spare arms massaging your chest.

You chuckle. “Ahh, let em’ have fun.”

Angel just leans, kissing you again. You can taste the gloss. Acting on a hint from earlier, he shifts himself, pressing his backside into your view while he dips and mouths your flank, massaging the flesh with both hand and lips. You groan as his skilled tongue laps at your hardening inches, head tossing in rapid dives, smearing your inches with his act. His slurps and muffled gulps send a thrill into you, and the view certainly helps. You lick your digits and press them into his pink ring, causing him to shiver and moan in surprised delight. You’re careful, but your pair of fingers imitates a rhythmic pumping motion, hoping to nuzzle his prostate while he works. It certainly gets him hard, and you’re happy to oblige with strokes along his member.

Vaggie and Charlie, in the meanwhile, have hastened their efforts. Their frames are bound together, lips locked, forms dappled with sweat, their fingers slipped into the other. A unison of grinding erupts from them, trading playful bites, touches, caresses – anything they could do. Such is their nature.

Angel Dust finishes his attentions with an audible pop, smooching your bellend. “Mwah!”

For a moment, you grind your digits harder, forcing him to accept your motions as he arches, biting his lip. But it’s just a tease, a little warmup, as it always is. He turns, taking position like before, allowing his pink ring to sink upon your pike, a hot sigh leaving him as he does. His own hardened length rests on your belly, while your hand travels to his back. He lifts himself once, then down.

He suckles your fingers while your metal limb explores him. You know him better now, here in this language of flesh, and it hardly matters he’s a spider demon. His back arches as you touch it, filling him with tingles. His hips are soft, and you reward them with a squeeze. You hold him close, possessive, like he’s a jewel.

Everything melts away in this moment. You forget who you are or what you’re doing. Everything clicks now, as you share each other – the one generous thing you can do as a two-bit thief. You want this. You want this forever. And you’ll steal, hurt, manipulate, and kill _anything_ or _anyone_ who’d take it from you.

How appropriate, a whore and a thief.

The late evening sizzles into a playful to-and-fro. Charlie and Vaggie peak at a certain point, but it doesn’t stop them. There are brief pauses, moments where they pull in breaths, but it’s only to regain themselves. Such hungers don’t settle for long – the greed for flesh and more, it lingers even in them.

As for you and Angel, it might not be the kinkiest thing he’s done, but it belongs to you both. Fuck. Why? Why do you feel this?

 _You’re soft on this spider,_ a part of you says. _Why, Anon, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you. . ._

What? You _what?_

. . .

Things quiet down. Now the intimacy settles in. Charlie and Vaggie are beside themselves, worn out, their nake bodies mingled together. You can hear quiet chatter from them, the post-coitus dessert of discovering more about your partner, the rare talk. It’s rare, because it exists only in the tenderest moments, where both are most vulnerable. Once you’ve shared a piece of yourself with another, there’s no going back. You’re a part of them, and what they decide to do with that gift speaks volumes.

You’re as close to Angel as you ever are.

“Shit, wish I had a smoke,” he mutters, head under your chin. You remember something.

“Hang on.” You fish for your coat, which hangs off bedside, retrieving an object from its inner pocket. It’s a cigar. “Knicked this.”

His eyes widen, voice low. “Holy shit.” He takes it, licking it, admiring it in spare hands. “This a fuckin’ Reserve?”

You nod. “Probably. Think I was gonna’ resist those deep pockets?” You’re referring, of course, to the demons at Sinai.

A part of you fears admonishment, but Angel Dust grins. “Fuck. Tell ya’ what, how bout’ we share this at home, eh? I’d be a greedy little cock-knocker to take it all for m'self.”

“It’s yours, Angel.”

You can’t quite say what you want to say. That you’ll steal for him. You will walk into the den of the Devil and pick his pockets if it meant that much, if only the spider would say so.

“Mmmf. Don’t spoil me, Anon, I might get too keen on that.”

He peers over your head. “How they doin’?”

You smile. “I believe the saying goes ‘fucked each other’s brains out.’”

Angel Dust chitters, beside himself. “Congrats to em’. When’s the weddin’?”

You’re both bemused, and a nice quiet forms, the kind where you sort of hold onto each other, the language of the flesh. After a time though, Angel breaks it.

“Eh, Anon. Uh. Can I ask’ ya something? Kinda’ remembered a favor.”

You blink. “Of course. Anything.”

His voice is lower now. “I ain’t the type to throw cold water on an orgy, but ah. You know. . .”

You sense he’s hesitant. “It’s all right. Tell me.”

“Ehhh well, ol’ silver screamer wanted me to ask. Did ya’ see something in the big ol' toybox? Ya know, the vault thing.”

Now _you_ pause. Images flash into your head. The rotten, repulsive thing hiding in the glass tube, mountainous in scope, a dread voice pounding into your head. You shivered, and you didn’t _want_ to remember it. You almost didn’t want to tell him – it was Vaggie asking, after all.

“Would you be okay if I told you at home?” It's not the most comforting of ideas, and you don't want to bring it up right now.

He gives you a sincere smile. “Aww, sure babe, sure. Whenever ya’ want.” He rubs your arm.

“Is it. . . bad?”

You shake your head. “It’s not pleasant, I’ll say that.”

He murmurs. “Oh.” Then, a shrug.

“Eh, fuck em’.”

Now you snicker, hugging him closer. “If it’s scary, will you protect me?”

“Keheh. Big scary Anon, needs a widdle ol’ spider to keep em’ safe. Heh. Yeah. I got six arms, don’t I?”

You’re both calm, unconcerned. Unconcerned for what lies out there, out in the dark. For now, you rest, until it’s time to leave, where the four of you share a cab back to the Hotel, wearing knowing grins, coming home late, your clothing reeking of alcohol and sex.

There’s a strange chill in the air.

-*-

[The unforgiving dark](https://youtu.be/HYXwwfN914o).

An impenetrable blackness where no light shines. The corners God forgot and dare not touch.

There in the hills of ash and dust, hidden beneath rivers of old dead, ruinous fingers rose from forsaken earth. Remains, cracked fingers and cyclopean stonework, once the herald of the True Son, the seat of his throne. Now the vista resembled a graveyard, lost. It slept well beyond the rims of the pretender city, so far and so distant the rims of poison neon were no longer visible.

‘Twas here the True Son first erected his defiant empire, where all his profane works found purpose. Here his generals resided, his children, and the weeping souls he tormented. Here, the True Son engineered his campaign against the above, to inflict a reckoning. An eternity spent musing over the destruction of all things. But now? Forgotten, forgotten in the dark.

No more.

HEAR ME!

A dread entity coalesced, bearing magnanimous rage. Withered wings and single armed, headless, endless, overwhelming. Cracks of scarlet electricity writhed about it, the dead sky choked with greasy clouds.

And lo, did Abaddon look upon the ancient works, awash with fury. His form festered and splintered, spokes of bone ejected from his flesh, sour skin blossoming with boils. All that was good and holy and magnificent of form, he despised. A rejection of intelligent design, seeping with an uncompromising, unrelenting, unending hatred. He, the General, the Icon of Annihilation, free.

_O, GEHENNA! I BRING THE PRETENDER’S HEAD! MY TITHE UNTO THEE, THE FLESH OF MAMMON! THE COWARD’S TONGUE! LET HIS FLESH FEED EARTH AND BLOOD NURTURE THY BITTER MOUTH!_

Abaddon, floating high above the ruins of the city, held out the seed to his intent. Mammon’s head – the coward. Once disguised, forsaking his title for Macron. The last of them, the jailer, sealing Abaddon away for uncounted eons, ceasing his works. Now gone. The rest of the pretenders would see a similar fate.

But where were his brethren? Akaphalos? Gehennalis? Luris? Gabriel? They too, forsaken and gone? Lord, have you abandoned your ways? Yes, yes you have. This knowledge inspired fury, this weakness.

He flung the skull into the ashen lands. Then, threw his hand into his chest, tearing forth the Tongue of Man, and ugly pike of rancid, black metal, possessing twin forks caked with rust. Abaddon split the air with a headless shriek, flinging himself and striking the ground with his spear, forcing it to rumble and violently shudder as veins of red snaked from the blow, erupting into geysers of crimson and flame.

_HENCE, COMES, THE RECKONING!_

He forced life back into this rotting pulp, willed his malice into the deep tombs of creation. Resurrect, o’ Gehenna, and bring him your giants, your titans, your Nephilim. The True Son has forgotten. He abdicates his duty. His kingdom for a child’s world of light and lust.

I will remind you, my lord.

I am Abaddon. And I return. _I have plans for your city_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no, He's here.
> 
> This is my last piece for a little while, as I pursue some busy work that's building up on my plate. But hey, not to worry, a smutting Hazbin Hotel commission is in the works while you daydream about dating Angel Dust, or something.


	10. The Thief and The Spider

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Out in the dark, something stirs. Trouble is brewing, and time is ticking. Time, you wish you had more of.
> 
> After a chat with Alastor, you meet with Angel Dust, discovering something you always wanted but never expected. . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy, we're rollin' up our sleeves and getting close to the end! Er, by close, I mean we're in the last arc of this little story. Stakes are high, passions higher, and according to an annoying chicken, the sky is falling!

**The Thief and The Spider**

The agony of existence.

Something tears into the dead pulp of cursed, barren land, dragging forth slumbering flesh. Rusted chains yank out the carcasses of the long fallen, malign life driven right back into their decaying corpses, setting the hills ablaze with the pained howls of the returned. O’ foul breath, o’ toxic air, clouded with smog and poison and filth, why is this their return? Their bellowing is a shriek of enraged terror, for to live is to know only torment.

Pillars of profane fire belch and surge from lands of barren black, spiking light into the void of Old Hell. Rivers surge with Nephilic bodies, clawing and scraping out of magma veins, desperate to escape. But there is no escape, because now they live again.

One bursts from the searing ground, hacking and coughing clouds of smog, lungs expunging ancient ash. He claws and tears at himself, for it splinters with exquisite pain, spikes of hot, black electricity consuming every waking nerve in his newborn body. His form cracks, exoskeleton snapping into cohesion, bulbous scarlet eyes filling with sight as muddy reality swims and dances in a confusing display of hellish reality.

He sputters, screams, writhes, pushing himself up, attempting to stand as the viscous muscle solidifies, shifting from a bubbling, boiling soup into something useful. His mandibles sputter and click, antennae flicking, claws tearing at himself, stripping away entrails and remains of the ground’s afterbirth. What a way to come into the underworld.

As his eyes focus and consciousness returns, he consumes a sight most chaotic. Skeletal fragments and massive, titanic corpses wail and erupt from the ground, screaming in a chorus of pain as they aimlessly wander the searing ground, mindless, purposeless. Horrific stonework stands defiant like monolithic fangs, glistening against the pulse of fire splurging from below and above, while the sky mourns with crimson energy.

He looks at himself, flexing his jointed digits and elbows, spiked carapace hued an ugly, repugnant grey. He hadn’t seen these in. . . eons.

“Oh shit,” he hissed, voice crisp and cold, rubbing his head. “Is it wartime already?”

It was the only parallel he could form. What else? His memory was foggy, a slushy pool of milky thoughts, confused and unclear. When last he walked, it was thousands of years ago. Tens of thousands? More? Oh, time was an unkind mechanism, taking all, leaving nothing. He could only capture feelings, sensory experiences from the long-gone days – violence, rage, bloodshed. Swarms, hungry swarms. And the Icon of Annihilation.

_Rise._

A dark, icy voice erupted in his mind. It nearly split his exo-skull with controlled fury, and there was only _one_ being capable of that.

Black dot pupils wandered until they saw a herculean mass of flesh, a towering entity sitting above a makeshift throne of cracked stone. The sour skin was broken and ripped in a hundred ways, intestines dripping from its guts. Blisters agitated inflamed flesh and one arm was gone, as was the head. In its other grasp, a repugnant spear with forked tip hissed with heat, scarring the air as it smoldered hot-orange.

“Oh. Hey big guy.”

Abaddon loomed over the ruins of _Gehenna,_ observing as new “life” splurged from its rotten essence. The saplings of his rage sprouted, ancient Nephilim long forgotten, forever buried in Old Hell.

_Child._

The voice almost brought him to his knees.

“Gagh. Agh! Jeeze. I see you haven’t lost your taste for theatrics.”

_The time is upon us again. The time to lay low all of Creation._

The locust rubbed his lidless eyes. “Really? Now? Can I have like, five more minutes?”

The earth rumbled, a growl shaking the terrain.

_Cease your prattle, cease your games._

Sarakk shifted anxiously. “Glad you kept your sense of humor too. . .”

Even though Abaddon bore no head, Sarakk could _feel_ his gaze.

_I have ripped you back into existence to serve again, and serve you will._

The locust looked around. “I uh, noticed. But we seem to be short a whole chorus, big guy,” he said, gesturing around. Though his memories were disconnected and broken, he could at least recollect grand throne rooms with multiple entities of brilliant armor and power, Abaddon amongst them. Now? This was a graveyard – if graveyards had a lot of fire, anyway.

_Our lord has forgotten His way. He has abandoned His works for games and childish delights._

“I like childish delights,” Sarakk muttered.

_I will remind him by ERADICATING HIS CITY._

Sarakk flinched. The words split the air with a spark of red electricity, vaporizing one of the wandering Nephilim.

_But my strength is drained, and I have spent much of it resurrecting Holy Gehenna. I need my powers returned._

Sarakk shrugged. “Could always try a long rest.”

_I have RESTED FOR MILLENNIA, IMPRISONED BY THE TRAITOR MAMMON. **I WILL REST NO LONGER.**_

A torrent of wind swirled and pillars of magma vomited around Abaddon, nearly breaking Sarakk in half with his fury alone. Sarakk raised his limbs, apologetic.

“Okay, okay, no naps, no naps.”

Abaddon took his terrifying spear and pointed it at Sarakk.

_You. You will go to the false city, and find me His Apple. I will consume it, and be born anew._

Sarakk was. . . nonplussed.

“A. . . fruit?”

_It is an object of immense power, and I cannot lay waste to the vile land of light and lust as I am._

Sarakk blinked, looking around. City? What city? There was an endless hellscape and never ending horizon of infinite black. But no city, unless they redlined that in a some kind of demonic census meeting he missed.

“Right. Ah. Well unless I’ve got a case of the old crazy brain, I don’t see a city, big guy.”

_It is far from us. I willed myself here with my reserves of strength. But now, I will send you back instead._

“Oh.”

Below Abaddon, a spire of energy coalesced, a crackling vortex warping into reality, a window. Through the mystic gate, there appeared the distorted image of a place strange and alien to the ancient Nephilim, where towers tore into the sky like fingers of metal, surrounded by fireless lights, draped in noise and chaos unlike anything Sarakk had ever seen.

“What the FUCK is that?” he said, pointing.

_Where you will go, and from it, bring me the Apple._

Sarakk rubbed his antennae between digits. “Wonderful. And, how should I go about doing that?”

_Follow the Arm of the Saint._

“The what?”

_Use the gifts you have been granted, and do not return without it, or you will SUFFER UNLIKE ANYTHING I HAVE YET INFLICTED IN THIS REALITY ALONE._

Sarakk’s mandibles clicked with nervous laughter. “Of course. No pressure.”

He walked toward the doorway, its distortion crackling with Abaddon’s malign energy. He paused before it, wiggling his antennae.

“If I go through this, it’s not gonna’ drop me from the sky or something, is it?”

**_GO._ **

He flinched again, wasting no more time. For the better – the air was coated with the shrill, wailing cries of agonized, resurrected death. Sarakk pushed his clawed limb into the viscous energy, the sensation like hot salt. He grimaced, moving into it, feeling his newly made flesh torn apart as it vaporized into magical essence, sucked into the vortex. With a shrill _YEEGH,_ Sarakk was yanked into the doorway, flung far, far into the distance, to the pretender city, the city of lights, Pentagram City.

His essence flew across the ethereal plane like a yolk, a soul squished into nothingness. His thoughts were stretched, pulled, thrown across the ether, the agony of reality pulled out of his freshly made body. Soon, his soul was tossed into the oblivion of his destination, exoskeleton forced back into its normal state, high above his destination.

Oh no.

As he gained consciousness, Sarakk was treated to the wonderful sight of the alien city far below him. He was falling. His wings were. . . unresponsive. Pinkish light danced over his grey carapace while the Nephilic locust flailed, thrown to his destination like a stone to a lake. The massive thing of gargantuan shapes and blistering neon swam up to him as he dropped to the ground, landing into the unforgiving asphalt with a clunky thud. He’d splatter, but the nature of his forgery was resilient, and not even a catastrophic fall could crack his shell. Still hurt though.

His mandibles stretched as he screamed into the rock, pushing himself up, _again._ He clasped his head, cracking it, eyes blinking, refocusing. What lie before him was. . .

“What.”

Sarakk didn’t understand. What. What!? What was _this?_ Before him, saturated in bizarre, reddish colors was an orgy of shapes and sounds completely foreign to him. They were like spires and mountains, organized into precise shapes of metal, coated with fire, except not fire? The roads were loud with a raucous of voices and chittering and abhorrent music, filtered through the buzzing of enormous mechanical steeds. Around him, things of strange colors and shapes and sizes eyed him with bemusement, coated in attires and markings so bizarre Sarakk wondered if any of this was even real.

And he was supposed to find an arm in all this?

His antennae wiggled. Arm. Limb. Apple. He needed some kind of clue. . .

“MOVE IT YA FUCK!”

While he was lost in thought, one of those wheeled abominations was behind him, blaring a terrible sound, like a loud, squawking goose. Sarakk peered over, and there was a demon, _inside_ the beast? Sarakk stared, but moved out of its way, watching it bolt past him in a stream of smoke. He wanted to stare, but something _else_ caught his attention.

To his side, hidden behind a veil of glass, strange boxes were stacked upon each other, shivering with images of demons. Sarakk boggled. It was like they were miniature forms of themselves, yet, there was one for each one of the bizarre cubes, all completely in sync, pictures flashing over them like a living book. What was this black magic and where could he get more of it?

As he stared, dumbfounded, something else of interest appeared. One of the figures, a woman of pale white flesh and sinister features, talked next to an image of. . . the Daughter of Lucifer? That’s what it said under the image anyway: _Charlie Magne, Daughter of Devil, Discusses Passion Project._

_“What?”_

No fucking way. Lucy settled down? Really now? Did he grow out of his edgy phase and find a nice woman to drain all the poison out? Apparently so. As the images continued to flick by, other words emerged, accompanying the picture of a massive red building: HAPPY HOTEL. Oh. Oh, by his lucky abdomen ass. If he was making sense of this dizzying blast of imagery, it appeared Lucy’s little monster housed herself in a fortress of sorts. Now, if anyone had a grip on the where and what of ancient artifacts, it _had_ to be the Princess of the Underworld. He could just ask her all polite like!

_Hi there, I’m a Nephilim. Happen to know where the Saint’s Arm is? I need it for my master so he can continue his job of TOTAL GENOCIDE AND ERADICATION OF YOUR ENTIRE CITY._

Sounded reasonable in his head. And hey! If she didn’t tell him, he’d just eat her! All he had to do now was find this Hotel. . .

“Pfft, reruns,” grumbled someone next to him. Sarakk looked. It was a thin little thing wearing some kind of hooded sweater. Sarakk beamed.

“HEY BUDDY!” he clicked, yanking the demon close. “You know that place there on the magic picture thing?” he pointed to the happenings behind the window.

The demon squirmed, trying to push off. “H-huh? Hey, get off me man!”

Sarakk shook his head. “No, no, no, _the picture,”_ he clicked, squishing his newfound friend into the glass. “That, that, where is that?”

Again, the demon tried to break free. “LFF GFF OF ME!”

Sarakk sighed. Well, sorry new friend. He clenched his articulated claw and squished the pulpy life out of his capture, cracking ribs and guts with casual ease. The blood seeped from his fingers like sticky oil, others shocked and forming a veeeery wide path around Sarakk. Why? Well he was hungry.

“Fine,” grumbled the locust. “Guess I’ll find it _myself.”_ He kicked a pebble on the sidewalk, forlorn. Well, he had a snack at least. He brought the body to his cutting mandibles, which devoured the fresh meat with precise, hungry cuts.

It tasted awful!

-*-

Two pockets of scarlet glared into you, carrying with them an untold malice, hiding schemes and plans and ideas only ever known to the mind which conceived them. A loathsome, yellow grin accompanied posh spectacles, scarlet suit masking the utter brutality of the one who wore them.

Alastor kept his eyes locked on you, a specimen who always fancied his mechanisms for control, whatever it was. His true purpose was never clear, and you hated him for it. But, you also respected him, too.

“It’s so nice for us to finally have a chance to catch up,” he said with an amiable tone, accented voice tinged with chaotic static. “How are things? How are you feeling? How’s the _arm?”_

You tapped the table. Bastard knew what he did. You weren’t alone though, Hox was with you, sitting at your side, equally annoyed. The dog was right from before – Alastor was calling in his leverage; to what end you didn’t know. But you were about to find out.

“Well enough,” you toss back. “I _almost_ want to thank you.”

He chuckled. “Ho ho ho, think nothing of it, my dear boy. I was happy to perform a little impromptu surgery, been such a while. . .”

He licked his lips, cherishing the thought. You shivered, chills running through your flesh. He clapped his hands together. “But, as much as I’d relish the opportunity to stroll down memory lane, there are pressing matters at hand!”

Hox glanced at you, grimacing. He looked nervous, and that made _you_ nervous. If a veteran like him was ill at ease, what was going on then?

Alastor peered down at you. He wasn’t sitting, just smiling, arms behind back. “Tell me Anon, I don’t wager you’re a fan of the ol’ Sunday shine? You know, choirs, preachers, and kneeling.”

You blink. “You mean, church?”

He laughs again. “Religious. You’re down here after all.” He doesn’t wait for you to respond.

“I didn’t think so, otherwise our little back-and-forth wouldn’t be necessary. Now, I admit, it’s been a spell since I ran through the Latin Vulgate, but I’m no stranger to the fascinating tales of heroics. . . and horrors.”

Hox tapped his foot. Fucker really liked the sound of his own voice. Well, he _was_ the Radio Demon, just wished he’d get to the point.

Your heart sinks. You think you know what he’s getting at.

“After your bangarang of a hit-job on everyone’s favorite den of debauchery, you saw something, didn’t you?”

You hesitate. You consider lying, but why? You can’t help but think every word you utter, everything you say, he’s twisting into some profane scheme, and you want no part of it. But Hox pulled you to the side, said this was important, and now here you are.

“Yeah.”

For a moment, it looked like Alastor’s grin faded. “Ahh, as I thought, as I thought. Well let’s pop this chardonnay, then! I’m afraid, my dear boy, the precious prisoner your peepers purloined was an old acquaintance of mine, and he’s a fellow none too pleasant, let me tell you!”

He gestured to you, as if apologetic. “I’d be a downer at the ball if I laid the blame on you for his escape, Anon! But alas, escaped he has, and he is upon us. Abaddon is as rife with malt vinegar as ever.”

The name hit you like a hammer. Abaddon. A darkness clung to the words, like the very utterance tainted the fabric of reality in its proximity. Fear came too, for memories flashed backed to the glass prison, the wretched carcass within, chanting its barbaric tongue into your soul, demanding freedom. But you didn’t let it out! Impossible! How could have it gotten free? The fire?

And then. . . and then you remember Sarin. Sarin who fell in the hole. Her caustic body melted everything. Oh, _fuck._

“You almost sound like you’re afraid of the guy,” chide Hox. Alastor’s searing gaze flipped to him.

“Oh, I’ve just got respect for his work, is all! Endless, ruthless slaughter, ho ho! What a show! He’d make for great primetime radio, I say! But. . .”

You cut in. “What’s this have to do with me? Or him?” A gesture to Hox.

Alastor gesture’s wide, his eyes flashing. “ _Everything!”_

“If our friend from the furious fires has his way, then everything is curtain calls! Cut the broadcast, stop the presses, cancel the show! You, Hox, this pretty little Hotel and fun dive of a city all go up in a carnival of carnage!”

You notice Alastor leaves himself out of the scenario.

“So! We can’t let that happen, can we? But not to worry, Alastor’s got a plan, you see. And good news, it’s the heist of a century! Simple, easy, no vans required. But it’ll need you two and that fancy arm of yours.”

You blink. A heist? The greedy beast within you sniffs as if offered fresh food. What kind of heist? What’s the score? What’s the reputation? But just as a small part of you gets excited, the other shoves in. What about Angel Dust? You’re trying to get better for him, aren’t you?

“Why the arm?” says Hox. “And if it’s such a big deal, why not a bigger crew?”

Alastor looked as though he was hiding a secret most delicious.

“Three’s a crowd! I’m afraid any more tagalongs and you’ll attract _His_ attention. No no, this is a smash-and-grab, if you’ll forgive the phrasing. You see, you’re going to steal _Eden’s Apple._ Right from the vault of ol’ Lucy Himself!”

Hox sputters. “What!?”

Alastor adjusts himself, pleased. “Yes. The Apple is an object of incredible power, you see. One grows every thousand years. Or, was it thousand thousand? Anyway! That little McGuffin is our ticket to an Abaddon free future! Hopefully!”

Holy shit. Stealing from the Devil Himself. . . like you always wanted. The scope of it alone is thrilling. Christ among the dead, if you could put that in a syringe and shoot up you’d never move again.

“You can’t be serious,” said Hox. “How? How the hell is any of this gonna’ work!?”

Alastor held out a manicured hand. “It’s complex, yet simple. Lucy’s got an arrogant streak, so He _never_ expects anyone to steal from Him. And it’s hard getting to His fancy closet in the first place. So, I’ll transport you both right in the heart of where you need to be! Right at the door! And all you need to do is get it open.”

He looks between you. “You’re both trustworthy and clever enough to get the job done, I think. Open the door, get the Apple, and we have ourselves a source of power to run a wrench into Abby’s big comeback tour! Of course, you need the arm to hold it, oh yes. That’s a whopper of energy and it’ll turn you into party confetti in a snap!”

The weight of his plan settles over you. The dynamics are straightforward, at least, though the rest is murky.

“What kind of door are we talking about?” you say. You need more than a description, if more even exists. Who has even attempted to steal from Lucifer? Did they survive?

He sneers at you. “The kind I expect you to open. But think outside the box. Lucy is not a conventional fellow. No doubt his security is. . . unconventional. I leave the ingenuity of its opening to you.”

You look him over. Convenient. He gets to sit on the sideline while you risk your neck.

“What happens when I get it, Al?” you chide. “Come back and just hand it over?”

Alastor pauses. It’s clearly been on his mind. In fact, before the release of Abaddon, perhaps this was a long-term goal all along.

You know he wants to say yes.

“I’ll let you decide, my dear boy.”

For the first time since you’ve met him, you can tell this truly agitates Alastor. It’s hard to detect, but his tone is flat, irritated. Even his grin can’t hide his disappointment in losing out on such a prospect. At least he has enough self-control leave it to you, whatever the decision is.

Even Hox is wowed. “Really? How _kind_ of you, Al. What’s to stop the boss here from doing something wonky himself?”

Alastor chuckled. “Why, nothing at all! But keep in mind, anything that deviates from putting the kabosh on Abaddon’s motives will have all of the city as peppy as a cemetery!”

So, stop him or everyone dies.

You did consider the alternative for a moment. What the Apple could do, you weren’t sure, except grant tremendous strength. With that, Devil knew what _you_ could accomplish. But dare you serve yourself, everyone else would suffer. Including Angel.

“I get the idea,” you say. “How’s this. . . Apple supposed to work anyway?”

Alastor scratches his chin. “Afraid I only know so much! It bends to the deepest whim of the holder, but only one. Beyond that, anyone’s guess!”

Great.

“And we’re getting there _how?_ You’re transporting us?”

Alastor cackles, cold and dark. He leans. “Now my boy, if I reveal all my secrets, _that’d be no fun._ Rest assured, you can only get there – and back – with my help. So yes, just think of it like an exclusive cab service, and I’m the driver!”

Hox flinched, groaning. “Straight into an early grave.”

More chuckles from Alastor. “No, no, goodness no. Hox, my good friend, if I wanted to kill you. . .”

He leaned, teeth flashing like knives, the air around him quivering, trembling at the dark energy roiling from his body.

“I’d do it myself.”

Hox looked away. You had the urge to take a swing at Al, but even you weren’t that stupid. He and Abaddon, they were kin of the same, wretched blackness, cut from the cloth of hate and death. One just wore a smile.

Alastor straightened. “So, Anon, what do you say? All in for this little shindig? It’s an opportunity of a lifetime!”

He stops, making a little ‘oh’ face. “Or, rather, _death.”_

You don’t answer at once. You heard him, but didn’t process. The gravity of all seeped into you like a viscous river. Stealing from the Devil Himself, the dream of a thief like him. The cherry? Fruit of Original Sin, something of such strength it could counter whatever this Abaddon had in store. With it, he could do anything. He could make himself the greatest thief that ever lived. He could rewrite reality! He could start over! He could. . . he could make a world for himself and Angel. But. . .

“Do I need to wish for Abaddon’s death?” you ask. It’s that simple, isn’t it?

Alastor’s smile falters, shaking his head. “Abaddon is immortal, my young friend. And the _real deal._ None of that wishy-washy, hocus-pocus. You can’t destroy the Destroyer! You’ll have to get creative.”

You scoff. “What? Why don’t you just tell me?”

Hox was nonplussed too. “Yeah, Al. You’d think in the face of total annihilation you’d give us the magic word.”

Alastor, again, laughs to himself, and it’s a sick, vile cackle. “I’m too excited to see what happens.”

Christ, what a psychopath.

Damn. So outright wishing for the death of Abaddon was off the table. And so was everything else. You didn’t think yourself clever enough to pull off some kind of masterful wish which could give you what you wanted _and_ remove Abaddon as a threat. If there was even the slightest hint at losing everything, losing Angel, then _none_ of it was worth it.

Angel. . .

A cold chewed your insides. What could all this cost? What was the risk?

You feel a fool for asking it, but. “Is this dangerous?” You stare at Alastor, hopeful. Hah. Your fate in the hands of a nightmare.

“Not if I put you in the right spot at the right time.”

He looks between you and Hox. For the first time, he says something honest. “Now boys, we might not be on the friendliest terms, but make no mistake, if there was a time to trust me, it’s now.”

Hox made a noise like he was digesting a piece of rotten meat. “Oh that’s just fucking peachy.”

Alastor looks at you. “Satisfied?”

No, of course not. A few hours ago, everything was okay. Your worst concern was the potential fallout from giving Angel’s stalker a maimed jaw. Now? What the hell happened?

You were paying the price for your greed.

“All right,” you finally say.

Hox rubbed his temple. “Guess I better get wasted and make a go at the Bois.”

He springs up, getting away from the meeting as fast as possible. You can’t blame him, just hanging around Alastor inspires a sense of dread. You stand too, taking a breath.

“Alastor,” you say.

“Mm?”

“I’ll do this, but. . .” your thoughts go to the only thing that matters in this fucking hellscape. “Give me some time.”

Alastor sneers, a “comforting” hand on your shoulder. “Savor all the hours you _need.”_

Hours, more precious than all the gold, money, and wealth in every vault of the underworld. You can’t buy more time.

-*-

You confide in the only soul you trust, drown yourself in the river of his company.

Angel Dust let you in with casual acceptance, and it’s here, in his little web of pink and gold, his room, you feel welcome. It’s home. Naturally, Fat Nuggets does all he can to enforce this, nudging you as you rest on the bed, oinking playfully. He prods you with his flat nose, and just as you reach to pet him, he scrambles away.

“Hey, hey, easy Nugs, don’t muss my sheets!”

Angel spies the antics of _his_ angel in mirror reflection, glancing to see the troublemaker crumple the pink silk with feverish hooves. Fat Nuggets doesn’t mind this, running around in frantic patterns until squeaking and falling off the bed. Angel rolls his eyes.

“Told ya’.”

The running continues, but this time along the floor.

“Little fucker is more trouble than he’s worth.”

You chuckle. Your better half is preoccupied managing over himself. He’s applying mascara and eye-shadow in precise, meticulous fashion. It’s an art form, really, how focused he is to achieve his characteristic look, and you could watch him do it all day. Every color is carefully selected, every tool the right kind. His mirror doubles as a cabinet, and along the shelves are dozens upon dozens of different hues, shades, and powders. His ammunition, his arsenal, fit for every occasion. Despite everything, despite his habits and violet tendencies and want for drugs, this side of him shows you the complex, thinking person behind his spidery persona.

If there was anything you could steal, it’d be this moment.

“Well, he’s not a cat,” you say. “What did you expect when you got a pig?”

Angel scoffs, but his gaze remains on his reflection. “Hey! Don’t take his side! You know how hard it is to wash those sheets?”

“We’ve done worse.”

“Yeah, I know a thing or two about cleanin’ jizm, pockets. Hoof marks ain’t the same.”

You chuckle, attention going to the television. Anything to distract you, really. Company with Angel is bliss, and the warmth of watching the world pass by on a screen lets you escape the reality of what’s ahead. Alastor’s plan is like a mountain, and you must carry it. If you don’t act, then the only thing you care about in Pentagram City will _cease._ But you don’t know what’s ahead, and you don’t know what you’ll decide. There’s nothing worse than a heist without a plan.

“Almost done?” you say. “I miss you.” You’re half joking. Half.

Angel grumbles. “Don’t _rush_ me! This ain’t the liquid shit, perfection takes _time.”_

Time, something you wish there was more of.

Angel finishes with his applications, using a lengthening wand to get his lash _just_ right. Not too much, not too little, enough that it grants his lashes an effeminate edge. He sets his wand aside and gently busies to eyeshadow, carefully pressing it into his lids, creating a timid, pinkish hue. Demon Lips, you think it’s called? You’re not sure. Makeup to him is like guns to you.

Wait, that’s not accurate either, he knows his way around a piece. When he’s not busy putting glaze on his lips, he’s cleaning the barrel of one of his choppers or various death-dealers. You’ve even asked him about it.

 _“What? Yeah, those old typewriters got a bunch of fuckin’ residue from the shootin. Bitches went slamfire on me once, wasted the whole goddamn mag!”_ he’d say.

_“Ugh, don’t even get me started on the drums. Clunky fuckers, heavy, jam half the time. Box mags! That’s what won the streets, baby!”_

In fact, he might know _more_ than you.

You hear him sigh in satisfaction, clicking shut his applicator, giving himself a few once overs. He spins in his chair, gesturing to his features.

“How’s it?” he says as you glance over. He shifts his cheek, the light catching his makeup.

“Tried somethin’ else, added a new primer. Makes the pink stick better, y’know? Makes it _pop.”_

You understood some of that. “It pops,” you say. He’s not satisfied with your answer.

“Wha! Hey! At least humor me, ya’ fuck!”

You rumble with chuckles. “Angel, I’m a plebian when it comes to this.”

He crosses his arms.

“I think you’re the prettiest thing in this whole fucking city.”

He tries to fight back a smile, feigning annoyance. “Oh, so I’m a _thing_ huh.”

You play along. “That’s right. You’re my pretty, gorgeous, thing.’

Now he flushes, but not from the makeup. You gesture to your left eye, which – as of now – has gone pitch as midnight. You can scarcely see through it and the only thing left is a blank, white pupil.

“Besides, cut me some slack. Only got one of these bad boys now.”

Angel frowns. “Nm? Huh?”

You shrug. “It’s curtains for leftie.”

“Oh. I thought you got better. Shiner ain’t worth shit now?”

You shake your head. Angel deflates at this, and you don’t like that. It’s not what you came here to do.

“Hey, it’s fine. I’ve still got a good one, and right now, what I see is looking really fucking good.”

Angel huffs. “All right, if ya’ say so. Guess’ we match now.”

Again, you chuckle. “Yeah! Twins. Just missing the lipstick, the dress, the mascara.”

“. . . the better taste in alcohol, guns, drugs, music.”

You adore this cheeky fuck.

You pat the bed, you’re tired of him being all the way over _there._ “Come on, pretty boy, you’re killing me.”

You hunger for his proximity, his company, his strength. Sure, he might look like a princess in distress, but frankly, _he’s_ the rock here. Angel Dust is certain in himself, his goals, who he is. He understands and accepts his condition, his addictions. More than you can say for yourself, a beast chasing its own tail, without clarity of who it wants to be. Are you still a thief? No, you challenge, you’re trying to be better, for him. And yet, your dark impulses, the specimens of violence, manipulation, want, they return.

Angel is the only one who makes sense to you, in all this.

He stands, sauntering over to the bed. He’s in something a bit more casual – another t-shirt but with high-cut shorts coming right up his thighs.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” he shoots back playfully, Fat Nugget prodding his master’s ankle. Angel gives the oink a few pets before relaxing on the sheets.

“Okay. _Don’t_ get in the bed.”

He glares at you, smirking, gesturing to himself. “I’m _already here!”_

You’re quick to sneak an arm around his shoulder, gentle with the prosthetic. “Yes, yes you are.”

He releases a pleased sigh, side falling into yours. He can’t help but glance at your face, noting the black sclera.

“Can I see?” he asks. You don’t answer, but instead tilt your head, letting the light flick against your scarred face. With care and diligence, Angel studies it, peering at your sightless eye. He takes a gold lighter from his nightstand, igniting it right in front of the blackened oculus.

“Nothin?”

You shake your head. “It’s all murky.”

He squints, setting the lighter aside. “Hrrfm. I can see through mine. I don’t get it.”

You aren’t sure either. “It was toxin. Probably fried the nerve.”

Warmth blossoms in your chest. He always dotes on you in the smallest ways, even over a grim subject like this. It makes you feel like you’re important to at least someone.

He grumbles again.

“You’re cute when you’re frustrated,” you say.

He glares at you. “Oh, glad my sufferin’ amuses ya’, ya’ prick.” He doesn’t mean it though – at least not now. His snarky, sarcastic demeanor hides a deep, sweet soul. A broken soul, like you, but it’s there, and that is what draws you to him.

You don’t want to keep talking about yourself – he’s important to you too. Once more, the notion of what’s ahead, what you have to do is. . . it frightens you. Just for now, you want to forget, and be with him, and pretend tomorrow everything is okay and that Abaddon is a bad dream.

At the same time, you notice he looks a bit on edge. He’s cozy with you, but tense.

“How’ve you been feeling?” you ask, giving him with an assuring rub.

His extra hands wiggle together, fingers tapping. “Urrgh. How’d you put it?”

He looks at you. Uh oh. “Fuckin’ sucks.”

You’re alarmed. “What? What’s wrong?”

He clenched his teeth, sucking in air. “Aww, oof. Pockets, this shit’s drivin’ me crazy. Notice somethin’ different about me?” he said, holding out hands.

He continues before you answer. “Ain’t got a blunt or a somethin’ to shoot up or a goddamn drink and I’m fuckin, NNNG!”

Angel holds himself, frowning. “This is hard, this is _haaaaaard,_ Anon. I don’t think I can do this. This clean shit. I mean I figured I’d have a tumble or two, then I’d just get back up on that gay-ass unicorn and float into sobriety.”

He waves his hands. “Weeee. Goin’ _straight._ Oh I can’t fuckin’ wait when I get my harp n’ halo! Oh, that’ll be the fuck’n best! Gonna’ jack off with the other angels about how much I hated gettin’ fuckin hosed and suckin’ dick!”

It’s funny, but, there’s genuine pain from it.

“Angel. . .”

Your number one throws his hands in the air. “Flah! Ya’ think I don’t know they’re lookin’ at me, eh? Blondie and bitchy? Just _waitin’_ for me to fail. Ohhhh they _love it_ , so they can say, ‘tut tut, poor Angie wangie, he’s such a troublemaker!”

His rant continues, tossing his hair like he’s Charlie, mimicking her voice. “Oh I know, I’ll sing a song, THAT’LL FIX EVERYTHING!”

He’s. . . hitting a wall.

“Husk’ll suck back a shitty bourbon and do his ‘told ya so’ routine and ice-queen will do that stupid _rubs her nose_ bullshit! And then what!? HUH!? What do they WANT!?”

You wanted to say something, but he didn’t relent, glancing to you now. “I was a _somebody,_ Anon! Big FUCKIN’ deal! I’d get wine and dined by the bigwigs from every Side of this shit city! Paraded around like I was a goddamn diamond, and I WAS!”

His eyes glistened, pointing at the wall, pretending to be an admirer. “’It’s Angel! It’s Angel! Can you sign my dick!?’ And I’d wink and they’d jizz their undies.”

“I got bigger,” he continued, voice lowering, “than my own family. I fisted this fuckin’ town, and then I gave it the best blowjob it ever had. Had a whole room for just _guns,_ and another one for _blow!”_

He rubbed the side of his head, gaze downcast now, staring at the sheets. “Noon I was _flyin’._ White lines, Lucy, buzzin’ on E, and maybe a few shots just for a kicker. Now? Suckin’ cigs by the carton tryin’ to fight it off. All that weak shit Husk passes me? Fuck! I whipped up nail-polish and grape juice to get a buzz!”

Hearing this, your heart. . . hurts. Angel, admittedly, is strength to you. But how could you be so naïve to think he wasn’t having problems? And you _never_ asked?

But also, why was he doing this to himself?

“Now. . . this.” A wide gesture to the room. “I’m here, with you.”

Immediately, he flinches. “Ah! I-I mean, I didn’t. . . not like that. . .”

Much like Angel has comforted you, time and time again, you will do the same. “It’s okay, _it’s okay.”_

Was this the opening to a cruel joke? A thief and whore sit in a room, and they ask how can they be better? Except, there’s no punchline, and no one’s laughing. Why are you trying to be better? Why? To feed the ego of Lucifer’s daughter? It wasn’t Angel’s pursuit of sainthood that drew you to him. Hell, like you always remind yourself, you don’t _belong_ here. You didn’t come to the Hotel for redemption.

He growls. “Nnnng, no!” Rubbing eyes, fighting back tears.

“I just put this shit on,” he hisses, referring to the mascara.

The beast within you sniffs, aroused by dark temptation.

“Do you. . . ever want to go back?”

He sniffs. “To what?”

“Old life. Everything. Drugs, violence, all of it.”

He pauses, taking a long while to respond. A deep breath. Then. “Yeah. Sometimes.”

He closes his eyes, chastising himself with a bitter chuckle. “Listen to me. Anon. Fix this. Please, fuck. Please FIX me!”

You go cold. What!?

“Angel!”

Your prosthetic leaves his shoulder, going to hand, squeezing it (carefully). “ANGEL!”

He recoils. “What?”

“Listen to me. _Listen to me._ You don’t have to do this to yourself.”

Now, his gaze snaps to you, not understand. “H-huh?”

What are you saying? He’s trying to get better, that’s not a harmful quality. And yet. . . he’s giving up everything that makes Angel Dust _him._ He was happy. Maybe a bit self-destructive, certainly violent, but goddammit, it’s Hell!

“There is _nothing_ I need to fix. You are Angel Dust. You drink, you sleep around, you do drugs. So be it. So fucking what? Who are we trying to impress?”

He shrivels. “I. . . I don’t know Anon, it don’t feel right.”

You sigh. “I’m just a two-bit thief, right? Can I fix who I am? I don’t know. But. . . you’re stronger than me, Angel, _you._ I look to _you_ for advice. And I don’t care what you do, or what you decide. I’ll always be with you on it.”

He rolls his eyes, in disbelief, voice cracking. “Yeah? Well what if I decide to be perfect?”

You offer a small laugh. “Angel, I didn’t fall in love with you because you’re trying to be pe-”

. . .

You freeze. You catch yourself. Anon. Oh. Oh, Anon, what?

Your heart explodes, a mix of surprise, excitement, and anxious fear. The words are heavier than a hundred mountains, the reality clear. Your feelings have finally come to fruition. It's permanent. No more deception. You can hide it no longer. It’s been with you, this sensation, all this time, and now. . .

Angel Dust stares at you. You don’t look back, afraid. You can feel his soft eyes burning into you. He shifts, moving his frame in front of you, wide gaze locked to yours.

“What the fuck did you just say?” he says, tone low, voice trembling.

You don’t know how to answer. All you can do is feel! You can’t think!

“I. . .”

Before you can even process a response, he’s on you. His lips collide with yours, a maelstrom of hot, yearning energy sparking between your forms, his four arms swinging around you and gripping hard, harder than anything he’s ever touched. You’re almost shaking, and you embrace him with equal gusto, gentle with your prosthetic, hungrier and wanting.

It’s like you’ve kissed for the first time. It’s as if, now, you’re both real, and everything is clear. You squeeze his lithe back, you brush his head, you keep him close. He is precious to you. Forget the world! Forget the city! Forget everyone else! There’s only one thing in this entire universe that fucking matters to and he’s right here! _Here in your arms!_

For the briefest moment, he breaks it, spare hands holding your cheeks, staring into you. He’s not perfect, yet he is. His gorgeous, soft face, dotted with pink freckles and soft snow-fluff is greater than all the treasures and vaults combined in this scummy underworld. You want _him._ You want Angel Dust, with all his flaws, his problems, his lusts, his desires. You want this goddamn spider, words you never thought you’d ever, ever think.

His voice is low, soft, and hot. “Fuckin' idiot.” Again, your lips embrace. The world melts away.

You will keep this, cherish, protect this. Whatever it takes. Lie, manipulate, destroy, kill, steal, anything and everything.

No one will **ever** hurt him so long as you exist. Not even a fucking god.

It now means, no matter what, you have to get the Apple, if for no one else but him.

[Anon. You fool. You’re in love.](https://youtu.be/z-2_OstpR5c)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *fans self*
> 
> Oh, I've got a case of the vapors. Fuck me I'm a sucker for these cheesy, romantic moments.
> 
> It's happened, it's finally happened. You x Angel Dust. Love, fucking, the whole shebang with a kiss to seal the deal.


	11. Blood In My Face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sarakk continues his hunt, while you and Angel Dust figure things out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we drift closer and closer, careening and tossed, helpless in the wind.

Bulbous eyes watched with fascinated enthuse as the diagonal screen flashed from image to image as _Cannibal Carl and the Meat Muppets_ worked in unison, prepping a five-course meal of sautéed organs. It was a hit with many denizens in Pentagram City, and always got a few laughs from the seedy lowlives haunting _The Gallow._ Even hardened mobsters couldn’t help but smirk when Carl skillfully wrapped massaged entrails around a literal rump roast, waving to the crowd as he gave his dish a final seasoning. The muppets would cheer, wave to the audience, and then it was time for the _Six One Six_ news.

Too bad they weren’t alive to see it.

Sarakk reclined in relative comfort, sucking down the hot spice of an alcoholic drink while munching on a fresh snack, incisors cutting through the demon-meat like butter. This Cannibal Carl fella’ really got him in the mood! Appetite wise, at least. And hey, these television things were nifty too! Even though the one hanging in the corner was all mussed with sticky, black blood. Well, everything was, really.

The Gallow was his _eighth_ stop in the never-ending quest for the sodding _Arm of the Saint._ You’d think for such grand importance, the limb would be easier to locate. But every time he came careening through a wall, window, or door, asking about this astonishing artifact, he was met with “who the fuck are you” and “get out” and “oh god please help don’t eat me.” The nerve of these lower demons! Guess they forgot about the standing of the Nephilim. Well, The Gallow was no different, another darkly lit bar stained with the stench of filthy tobacco, bad booze, and foul-mouthed vagrants. No answers, no leads. Good for a pit stop though, he was starving. A few dozen thousand years would do that to a locust.

He stood, throwing his empty bottle of booze as it crashed against the wall with a violent shatter. He grabbed an arm, nibbled through its bone, savoring the flavor of marrow, a repulsive chorus of sloppy, chewing sounds dribbling from his cutters.

He watched the screen, fascinated. “Remember!” said Carl. “Two eyes, never one! And always separate the dark and the light meat! Stay hungry!”

Sarakk grinned – in the way a flesh-devouring locust could, at least. “Thanks!” he chittered, cold voice chopping through the deadened ambiance like a knife. “Will do, Carl!”

He stood, leaping over the bar, landing foot deep in the mushy chest of one of the demons. It didn’t groan – they were all dead, most of them an entirely unrecognizable mess of disconnected limbs and torn forms. Pah, mortal souls, so woefully fragile. When they weren’t totally useless in answering his very accurate question of “where’s the arm,” they were falling apart like desert papyrus in the rain. If this is all the big guy had to contend with, well, was Abaddon even sure he needed the Apple?

He marched through the floor, kicking aside frames, searching for a more delectable prize. One caught his attention, a nice thick bicep which he happily yanked from its carcass, stuffing it into his gob. If only the Saint’s Arm was so easy. . .

As he did, antennae wiggled. The wind shifted. Noise of the outside caught his attention as did a ray of pink light. Someone opened the door. No, wait, more than one. Silhouettes draped in cigars and suits stepped through. Sarakk continued chewing, watching them enter with _slight_ interest.

“What a mess,” one said. There were three. Two big ones, and a small one commanding the trident. Short, collected, had something wrapped around his head?

“Thought it was that shitstain from Sinai. . .” the other mumbled.

“No.” This voice was light, but colder. Muffled, sounded like he wasn’t forming the words right, as if his jaw was slack. “Dead anyway, though.”

The three approached, eyeing Sarakk with their. . . well, many eyes. Beady, ugly red things jammed into bodies of black hair. Multiple arms, multiple weapons. They had one of those weird metal things, ‘guns.’ Sarakk thought those were nifty, if not cowardly. True demons got in nice and close, but, hey, if you could find something pissing metal and fire, why not use it?

“Any last words, cockroach?” a big one said. He raised his arms, pointing one of his ‘guns.’

“Wrrfs thff armf,” Sarakk responded, throat still dragging down the hunk of flesh.

“What?” the other big one said.

“Oh fucking kill him, already,” snapped the smallest.

Sarakk blinked as a spray of hot lead burst into him. Normally, he’d do something acrobatic like wiz around in the air or duck behind a table. But rather he remained stationary, wincing as the fragments of metal collided into his carapace, and promptly bounced off. Ow!

Didn’t take long for the three to stop, gawking as the bullets rolled to the floor, useless. Sarakk gulped, hacking up a ring as he gnawed the rest of the limb, spreading his own as if in welcome.

“I said, ‘where’s the arm?’” he repeated, antennae flagged.

One of the big ones hesitated. “Uh. . . boss?”

Oh, more dullards? Well, maybe Sarakk was lobbing his inquiry all wrong. He was asking about the arm, maybe he should start with the daughter instead? He stalked forward, cracking the floor as he moved. They flinched, raising their weapons again.

Sarakk held out a hand. “Okay, stop, stop, no more of that, thanks.”

He picked at his cutting incisors. “M’looking for, uh. . . what was it?” He snapped his fingers.

“The. . . harness hotel? Hawkins hotel? Happenstance hotel.”

Silence for a moment. Then, one chanced a response. “The. . . Happy. . . Hotel?”

“YEAH!” Sarakk buzzed, excited. “That’s the one. I need to have a bedside talk with the uh, daughter of Lucy, is it? I just need to ask her something, that’s all. Figure that’s a good place to see it. You friendly fiends have an inkling on that?”

Sarakk leaned, looking over them. Big his foes were, but he loomed over them, easy. His body cracked and hissed like a machine, promising nothing but a swift death. The trio looked between each other, nervous. Finally, though, the smallest stepped forward. He was also covered in fine black hairy fluff, though he wore a bandage around him, nursing a broken mouth. His small, red orbs peered up, a look Sarakk recognized: delicious, pure, unfiltered hate.

“I know,” he said.

Sarakk perked. “Oh? Well that’s fantastic. Could you tell me now? Or. . . do you prefer I pull it out of you, bit by bit? Everyone’s really into dying a painful death today. . .”

One of the guards looked at his commander, uncertain. “Boss?”

The small one ignored them, rubbing his cheek, remembering. “If I take you there. . . I want you to kill someone for me.”

Sarakk tilted his head to an unnatural angle. “Well it’s really not necessary.” _You’re all going to die anyway,_ he mused.

The arachnid continued. “You’ve been tearing these streets apart. One of my boys said they saw you take a fucking shell to the head like it was nothing.”

Sarakk’s mandibles clicked. Okay? This was irritating. Was the little one after option two? Did demons in hell have a pain fetish?

“Betting the Devil’s bitch won’t fare much better. Or the fucking queen.”

“Eherm, methinks we’re on different pages, friendo.”

A hand raised. “Arackniss.”

“I didn’t ask.”

Arackniss sneered – before wincing, remembering his cracked maw. “Come with us. We’ll get you there.”

Oh. Well all he had to do was say so! Mighty generous of these ragged spiders – and all it took was butchering handfuls of local citizens. They seemed to have recognition issues. Time was you saw a Nephilim and nodded your head in respect! Kids these days.

Sarakk spread his arms, jubilant. “Awh, well gosh! How can I repay you? Oh, oh I know, I won’t disembowel you! Promise.”

There was an anxious quiet, as Arakniss turned, leaving with his guard who looked the locust over with seeded concern. Sarakk followed, sticky pools of black blood seeping out of the entrance. He was directed to one of the fancy metal machines – ‘cars,’ getting in with his newfound not-meal. It was cramped.

“The Hotel,” Arackniss hissed to his driver.

Sarakk was looking forward to a pleasant conversation with Hell’s princess.

-*-

“Sounds like a real prick.”

You’re staring at the wall, lost in your own words. Before, you wanted to believe it was a bad dream, some kind of strange fantasy brought on by a bad trip or too much drink. But much like your confession, it’s real now, there’s no going back.

 _“Abaddon’s out,”_ you had said. _“That’s all I got. I don’t know where he comes from. Don’t know what or **why** he is but, it’s enough that even chuckles is on edge. Somewhere, out where we can’t see, he’s waiting, and like every sociopath with an ego he’s plotting to kill us for the fuck of it.”_

Angel wasn’t impressed. _“Feel like I’m havin’ a case of déjà vu here.”_

_“This is serious.”_

_“It’s always **serious** , pockets.”_

It’s the last thing in the world you wanted to tell him. _You_ did this. Sure, maybe Sarin – somehow – was the one who really got the Annihilator out of his prison but, none of it would’ve happened if you hadn’t gotten your dick so wound up in grand, majestical heists. Christ among the dead. Why this, why now?

The city’s fate was in your hands. Who fucking cares. _Angel’s_ life was in your hands. _That_ was important.

“Rage incarnate. The doom of creation,” you say flatly.

But it’s not this what really eats at you. No, it’s the risk. You utterly and completely distrust Alastor – and the safety of your arrival and return, to _Satan’s fucking Vault,_ relied on him. _Then,_ you had to get Eden’s Apple, a cryptic, godly artifact which might in fact turn you into a sludgy paste. Assuming it doesn’t, you have to use it correctly. This implies you even get past whatever Lucifer uses to protect his precious treasure.

You don’t give a shit what happens to you. But if you fail, then. . .

“Ya’ really fucked the pooch on this one, eh?”

Angel taps at his gold tooth with a pick, extra arms reclining on couch. “I mean, sodomized the bitch. Gave it a prolapse.”

You look at him. He balls one hand, stroking it in the air. “Fisted it so hard ya’ gave its grandchildren a prostate exam!”

You cut in, tone harsh. “Angel.”

Is he not taking this seriously? Does he not understand what’s at stake? Does he not realize how much you mean to him?

His black sclera eye rolls to you. “Whaaaaat?” He flicks the pick away, shrugging.

Before you say something, he continues. “What? _What?_ I’m supposed to be scared?” His arms cross.

“Babe, must be a broken record in this shack, cause’ I feel like I’ve heard _this_ over n’over. Another reality destroyin’ _coglione_ I’m s’posed to drop dicks over? Don’t’ care. Eeevery swingin’ dick gets a little saucy with power and they decide to go apeshit. So. _What._ ”

You blink. “It’s not. . .”

He looks at you. “Not about that? I _know._ I _know_ you don’t care about him either. What you’re scared of, and what I’m _terrified_ of is. . . the same thing.”

Your heart is cold again, and he sighs. You had to tell him what was necessary. The thief’s greatest lie: ‘one last job.’ It’s a prayer, and all thieves are slaves to it. Because there is always another job, always. Unfortunately, this one might cost you everything.

His tone shifts, low and sober. A hand comes to your leg. “Shit, what can I say babe? It won’t change anything. I gotta’ watch you do something stupid, again _.”_

His words hit you harder than any poison or gun ever could. “And hope you don’t die, _again.”_

You weaken. “Angel, I’m sor-”

His other free hand comes to your lips. “Atutut. No. Shhhhh. Shh. I’m not mad. Scared titless, but not mad.”

Silence forms between you. His eyes dance around, thinking. “But, I figure. . .”

He looks at the floor, pensive. “I figure, if ya’ _do_ fuck up, well. I’ll be dead. And I’d prefer a six-foot sleep than be alive and you’re not. . . you know. Around.”

Hand falls from you lips. Your chest fights with a whirlwind of sensations. Fear, warmth, anxiety, concern, terror. . . love.

“But if ya _don’t_ burn the circus tent down, then, you’ll be back anyway, eh?” he says, features pulled with a weak smile.

He looks at you again. “Or, I could fuckin’ come with ya and fix this fuckshit mess myself.”

You give a bitter laugh. You can’t help it. The one goddamn time he offers to come with you for a score, and you don’t want him to. You will not let it happen. You haven’t the slightest idea what to expect. Alastor, for a lark, could throw you and Hox into a hellish void for all you know. Lucifer might show up and sentence you to a whole new realm of agony. If anything happened to Angel, you’d never forgive yourself, and _you’d_ rather be dead. You’d prefer to cease existing entirely.

“That’s too dangerous,” you say. Angel cackles.

“I think playin’ the knight in shinin’ armor at this stage is a bit late, smart guy. Bitch, do you _know_ who I am? Ain’t some damsel.”

He grins, pressing hand into his fluffy “tits,” rubbing digits on pinstripe suit with smug pride. In a way, you want to say no – about knowing him. Because, up until last night, you’ve been with a version of Angel. Intimate, close, and honest – certainly. But once you decide your feelings are mutual in the most intense sense, you become something else entirely. He’s not just Angel Dust, he’s _your_ Angel Dust, much like you belong to him.

It’s for this reason you’re happy to play the idiotic “knight” persona.

“Coulda’ fooled me,” you say, attempting humor. “ _Princess.”_

“Only in the sheets.”

“Now that’s a lie if I ever heard one.”

He flips you off. “Yeah? Well this princess here gave ya’ your guns. _And_ the knife. And if I _do_ recall. . .”

His finger comes to his chin, tapping it, like he’s mulling it over. “My knife shanked a bitch, savin’ ya. I got them goons off your dick so ya’ could swing it around at the casino. And I _still_ had time to roll Pinchy’s fuck boys.”

It was true. Put Angel in armor, he was the one looking out for you at this point.

You look at your prosthetic, flexing it. “Even if I wanted you to come, Angel-”

His grin widens. “You _always_ want me to cum.”

Goddammit.

“. . .you couldn’t help it, could you?”

He crosses his legs, giving a prideful head toss. “Ey, remember, I used to do standup.”

A deep breath. You continue. “Angel. Even if I _wanted_ you with me, three’s a crowd. Can’t imagine how we’re flying under the radar as is. One more tagalong and I imagine we’re fucked.”

Angel offers a long shrug. “So?”

“I’m _not_ taking that risk. Hox knows what he’s in for.”

The spider scoffs. “No offense to red rocket, but what the hell’s he got I don’t?”

You pause, considering your next thoughts carefully. Very, very carefully. The your partnership with Hox is, well. Painful. There’s a brutal reality to it, made clearer with Angel.

You stare at the demonic arachnid. “Hox. . . is. . .”

Go on. Say it.

You can’t. You want to, but you can’t. _Expendable. He’s expendable._

You say something else. “Hox has experience with this, he might know something. The less factors there are, the easier this is.” You hope.

Angel feigns a frown. “Startin’ to get the feeling you don’t want me around.”

You blink. “What?”

He nudges you. “I’m _kidding._ Sheesh. Don’t lose your ‘illuminatin’ sense of humor.”

You nod lightly, relieved. You don’t want him to feel forced out, but you’re not chancing anything. You focus on Angel’s hand, the one on your leg, swimming in the sensation.

“I know I’ve fucked up in pretty big ways, Angel. But this one?”

He looks at you. “This one I have to do right. I’m not in it for myself or anything else. I’m doing it because. . .”

You clench his fingers with your own. “If something happened, I’d, well. How’d you put it? I’d rather not exist at all.”

He shakes his head, rubbing his temple. His form shifts, and he swings himself onto you, resting in your lap. Extra hands play with your suit tie, his forehead pressed against yours.

“You might be the dumbest motherfucker I’ve ever known,” he says.

Somehow, this pulls a chuckle from you. “Yeah? Bad news, you’re stuck with me.”

Soft arms slide around you now. His proximity is warm, perfume intoxicating. Arousing, even. He chitters with a quiet laugh.

“I love you, you stupid sonofabitch.”

It’s like a bomb goes off in your chest. Energy screams into your flesh, every nerve ripped to life and smothered in a sensation you can only describe as pure, unfiltered joy. You grab his waist, pulling him close.

“Say that again,” you say, voice hoarse and hot, pleading. Everything is starting to fade away, again. The underworld stops.

He smirks. “No.” He presses forward, gentle lips colliding with your own. You breathe, you drink. You let his tongue dance with yours, caress him, let palms explore again, seeking refuge in sensitive fluff. A part of you twitches. You feel his haunches press against you. Ah, fuck, you need him. You need him so much it hurts. You want to show him he means the world to you.

Extra hands slide to your belt, unfastening, and. . .

“Uh.”

Angel breaks your kiss with an annoyed grumble. He keeps you close, like he’s shielding you from the interloper.

“Hey, fuck off,” says Angel. “Kinda’ _fuckin busy.”_

You managed to see the silhouette through Angel’s soft chest fluff. It’s Vaggie, wearing an expression of expectancy.

“I _was_ going to say dinner is ready,” she says. “But looks like you two are already eating out.”

Angel growls. “That _ain’t_ what we’re doin! You should _know_ what it is by now since you’re munchin’ carpet!”

Vaggie crosses arms, teeth clenched. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”

She taps her foot, familiar expression of frustration pulling at her features. “Come eat.” She turned, sable hair swinging with her. Before she left the room, she paused.

“Please _don’t_ do that on the carpet, the stains are a problem.”

Vaggie’s interruption has defused the ignition switch, and your balls are feeling a healthy shade of blue. The smell of Angel’s sweet perfume isn’t helping. When the click of her footsteps was no longer audible, Angel rubbed your arms, gaze returning to you.

“Lost my appetite,” he says, frowning. “Too much to ask to fuck ya’ boyfriend in peace!?”

“I’m sure what they made is very nice,” you say, squeezing his thighs. You keep it cool, but ‘boyfriend’ rattles around in your head and feels. . . incredible. You’ve completely forgotten about everything else.

He sticks his tongue out. “Pleh.”

Black sclera eye wanders to the window, looking out to the vista of Pentagram City. “Hey. . . you uh, wanna’ get out of here?”

You blink, following his stare. “And go where?”

He shrugs. “Dunno. Grab a bite. Nothin’ says good eatin’ like a sleazy diner in a shitty part of town.” Good eating here meaning 'let's get the fuck out of Dodge.'

“We have food here,” you smirk. “They probably worked _very_ hard on it.” You’ve already made up your mind.

He huffs. “Lot of things are _very hard_ right now, babe.”

“We’ll get in trouble.”

His gaze snaps to you. You grin now. So does he.

Before the grandfather on the wall has time to beat out another minute, you’re in hat and coat, prettiest motherfucker at your side.

-*-

Pentagram City is a blitz of styles and oddities, likely because it’s inhabited by damned souls from every other pocket of time since Hell began. Go down to the South Side and it’s like ancient Rome. West Side? A spree of familiar neon, an orgy of contemporary stylings mixed in with a little 50’s Americana. Even demons had nostalgia, it seemed.

This translated to a seedy eatery at the corner of some hellish street, a dismal rain painting the cracked asphalt, forcing steam to hiss from the roads. Probably because it was acid rain. Still, it made for a pleasant chorus, a timid background ambiance. Hornets of water smacked the stained windows as you and Angel fingered through an. . . unimpressive menu of things you weren’t even sure were safe to eat.

Entrail Enchiladas, one said. Bowel Burgers served with a side of Fried Fingers. Chopped Lamb? At least the choice of alcohol was untainted. And drugs. Apparently if you wanted a selection of drugs, that was up for grabs too.

“I mighta’ overestimated the quality of this grub,” Angel said, slapping the menu on table.

You rub your chin. “Who even eats this?”

“I’unno. Ferals?”

You put the sheet down, pushing it aside.

“Ferals?”

Angel fishes with his purse, pulling out a small mirror, clicking it open. “Yeah, ya’ know. Loonies, deadheads.” He studies his lips and mascara.

He glances at you after you don’t respond. “ _Ferals._ Mooks who get wasted so many times they come back all. . .”

He wiggles a hand. “Angry.”

You can see it in your head. “Mindless, you mean?”

His snaps his finger. “That’s the word.”

So, dying over and over means leaving a piece of yourself behind until there’s nothing left but a violent, raging husk. No memories, no understanding of what you are. Mercy then for one of the angels to put something like that out of its misery. Was Abaddon feral?

Ugh, no. You shudder at the thought, and you didn’t come here with Angel Dust to postulate over hypotheticals.

A figure appears at your side, a succubus with scarlet hair and pale skin. “Evening,” she said in a curt, uninterested tone.

“Get your order, sir?” she says to you, chewing gum. You glance between her and the dismal offerings.

“Uhhh, whatever drink you have that isn’t shit.”

She quirked a brow. “So, Miller?”

“. . . if that’s the _best_ you have.”

“Tap?”

Oh Devil below, no. You shudder to think about what quality their tap is. “Bottle.”

The waitress looks to Angel. “And you, miss?”

Angel snaps his mirror shut, trying not to crack with laughter. “Same. And uhhh, gimme a buzzer. Couple o’ tabs and some Molly. No hash, though, on a ‘diet.’” A cute lie.

Alcohol and drugs? Old habits came back hard, didn’t they? But you didn’t care. You wanted Angel happy. Yeah – it was the same story, and the same conversation the two of you would probably have with Charlie: “You’re violating rehab.” But, around the corner, there was an apparent apocalypse level entity just waiting to turn Pentagram City into red mulch. So, fuck it.

The waitress doesn’t even write it down. “We do serve _food_ here," she says, looking between you both.

You have doubts. “Alright, alright. Hash browns. Can you do hash browns?”

Now she scribbles something. “ _Hash-Slinging Slash Browns.”_

She vanishes, returning with your drinks soon after, while sounds of what you _hope_ are potatoes sizzle in the background. In the meantime, you crack the side of your drink on table edge, foam seeping from its tip. This catches Angel off guard.

“Ooo,” he coos, intrigued. “Never seen ya’ do that before.”

You shrug. “You learn a few things hanging around mobsters.”

A proud smile stretches his face, nudging his bottle to you. “Do mine.”

So you do. Cap to table edge, and you give the glass neck a harsh tap. It pops open, gurgling with foam. It’s messy, but it works.

Angel licks the end of his, perhaps a bit _too_ suggestively. “Mobsters, huh?”

You blink. Yeah, mobsters. Huh, interesting, you can actually remember that now. In _fact,_ as you focus, you realize _everything_ is starting to come back. Who you were, how you died. What you did. Everything.

. . . everything.

“Yeah, uh, yeah.” You trail off, fascinated but alarmed at your newfound retrieval. Angel is too.

“Well ain’t that a peach. Ya’ know, just realized pockets, I don’t know diddly shit about ya.”

You look at him. He takes a long draft of his Miller, _halving it,_ releasing it with a loud, satisfied gasp, wiping his lips.

“I mean, I know ya’ like stealin, and you’re kinda shit at it, and ya got that biiiiig Bad Dragon dick, but still. . .”

The waitress returned, setting a plate of sizzled _something_ on the table, while tossing a bag to Angel, filled with a few colorful pills and tablets. The moment of distraction lets you focus.

“I guess it’s coming back now,” you admit. “I’m not sure why.”

You feel it returning. _All of it._ The noise, the people. The family.

Angel cracks his fingers, taking the bag and stuffing it in his purse. “Welllll, now things are getting intererstin. I admit, I liked the ol’ dark and mysterious angle, but now that we’re tied at the wrist, buddy ro, consider my curiosity _roused.”_

“What do you mean?”

He drinks the rest of his Miller like it’s water (it basically is). “Well, _shit,_ pockets, I’d like to know more about my boyfriend if that ain’t too fuckin’ much to ask.”

Oh. You nod. “Oh. Well, of course.”

He snaps a pair of fingers. “Tell ya’ what. Back and forth. I tell you a thing, you tell me a thing. Sound fair?”

You prod at your potatoes with fork, and you swear something blinks back at you. Drinks will work.

“You’re on.”

Angel looks positively tickled. “Fuck yeah!” He slams the table a few times, hollering for the waitress.

“Hey, strawberry shortcake, set us up!”

Across the bar, the waitress shoots him an annoyed glance, but returns with a couple more bottles of liquid courage.

As you crack them open again, Angel wears a mischievous grin, like he’s about to dive into something tasty. And maybe he is.

It starts slow, little tidbits revealed one by one. “I call dibs,” says Angel.

“First time I gave a blowie. Fuckin’ hot. Wish I could do it allll over again. Learned pretty quick to watch the teeth. Took that fucker all the way, baby. Gagged though, kinda’ hard to not do that. But once ya’ take it, rest ain’t so bad. Breathin through ya’ nose though, gotta’ remember, cause the ol pipes are a _little_ preoccupied.”

He winks, knocking a swig back with a prideful sneer. You figure this was when he was alive – hard to imagine a “virgin” Angel Dust in the underworld. But you don’t ask. Something about his lips touching another man’s cock bothers you.

You ignore the thought, taking a drink. “All right. Not bad. Hmm. First thing I ever stole. . .”

Angel Dust tilts his head, interested.

“Pack of cigs off a nun. Pall Malls? God they were _shit._ Traded them to a bum for a beer. Also shit.”

Your arachnid entourage snickers. “That’s kinda light, pockets.”

“I was twelve.”

He rolls his eyes. “All right, all right, I’ll give it to ya’.” He gestures at you. “Your turn.”

You blink. More memories flood in – it’s like they’ve been ripped out of their mental grave. You weren’t sure why this was happening _now?_ Was it an emotional trigger? You’ll figure it out later.

“Hmm. Well. I was in corrections at fifteen, then off to the slammer two years later.”

“Oh?”

You nod, sipping the booze. “Yeah. . . yeah. Robbed a convenience store with a dropout.”

Shit. That’s right. It was crystal clear now. “We knew the owner. Real piece of shit. Slept around on his wife, charged his customers more when he got the chance. So, we just did our public duty. Two grand split between us. Gun wasn’t even loaded.”

Angel looks impressed, tapping his palms with light applause. “Heeey! Not bad for ya’ first score! Popped your cherry with another man. Was it good for ya’ both?” He winks.

You give a weak smile. “It was. Then we got busted. Five years upstate, no parole, no juvy."

Could've been worse, but you started hanging around hardened criminals. It changed everything. You drink again.

Your spidery entourage clicks his tongue. “Ya’ got caught? Psh, amateur,” he chides, teasing.

You cross your arms. “Uh huh. I believe it’s _your_ turn.”

He’s tickled but doesn’t persist. Rather, he taps his chin, thoughtful. “Let’s see. . .”

It’s this way for a while. You trade little morsels about yourselves. Angel goes on about the first time he tried on makeup, his favorite brands, why he prefers ‘all day’ lipstick and glaze, where to hit a guy with an icepick, the first time he crossdressed, and so on. It’s charming. You get the impression he doesn’t tell people this, at least not in casual back-and-forths. In fact, he’s probably only talked about it with Cherri after a few dozen bottles or so. Now he’s sharing himself with you, and your heart blossoms with warmth, forcing an eager, genuine smile on your face.

On his fourth Miller, his cheeks are a little flush, rain picking up against the diner window.

“So. . .” he says, eyeing the empty bottom of a bottle. “Ya’ remember your first kill?”

Your smile falters with an anxious chuckle. “Hah, what?”

Angel shakes the glass, hoping to get a few more drops. When none appears, he sighs, setting it aside.

“Ya’ know! Itchin’ the trigger finger. Nobody forgets. I sure don’t! Down here, actually! Blew a canoe right into a fella’s head when I was goin’ all _Machine Gun Kelly_. Big irons kick like a _motherfucker!_ They were scrapin’ him off the wall for _days.”_

He wheezes with laughter, enjoying the recollection of bloodshed. But you? Unfriendly images seep back in, viscous and filthy. About the day. The quiet drive, the stench of cheap tobacco, the accent of your boss. It was cold, bitter. You see _his_ face.

You tap the table. “Uh, hard to say.”

Angel makes eyes at you. “Awwww come on! Teeelll me, I wanna’ know! Tell your Angie! Was it a shootout in the streets? Drive by? Smoke a guy from across the way?”

He seems enthused over it, like it’s worth celebrating. You slowly shake your head.

“No, heh, no, um.”

You take a long, long draft, finishing your drink. Something bitter forms in your stomach, and you stare at the table. Angel waits, expectant. Do you lie? No, of course not. But it’s like a pit in your guts.

A deep breath.

“My, uh, captain pulled me aside one day. Said we had a ‘pest’ problem and it was time I showed the family I was loyal.”

Angel rests cheek on hand. “Captain?”

“Mob captain. Helped one of his trigger boys in lockup. Guess they appreciated that, so I ended up working for him when I was out. Anyway. . .”

The vista of what you did swims up to you. The car, the short, overweight, angry man at your side, his irritated voice, the pale white building doubling as a butcher shop.

“We. . . pulled to the back, to the freezer. Few of the other boys were there too. Then, this guy, I think he was one of their mules, they’d strapped him down, in a chair.”

You shift, uncomfortable. You attempt to keep yourself steady. “He’d apparently been lifting product and selling it on the side, just enough to skim the top. Dunno’ how they found out, but when they did, they snapped his legs and hit him so hard I couldn’t even recognize his face.”

You rub your head. “Boss brings me in, looks at me. Points to the ‘pest.’ Puts a gun in my hand, and says. . .”

Your eyes come to Angel now. “This is what we do to thieves.”

“He told me to kill the mule, right there.” A sick fear rumbles in your chest. Why was this bothering you? You’d done worse since then. But something about his eyes. . .

“If I didn’t, they’d fuck me up, so. Shoved the gun in his mouth, looked him in his face, and. . .”

You made a wide gesture, implying death. Angel was silent, eyes wide.

A frayed chuckle escapes you. “I remember. . . I remember the blood, it got into my mouth. And there were pieces of him, on my face. I thought I would be sick. Then, everyone just nodded. Boss left, they took me to the cutting room, and we ran him through. Turned him into limbs, like it was nothing. Huh.”

You stare out into the dark streets, wet asphalt glistening with pink light. “I wonder if he’s down here.”

You gulp down the rest of the alcohol, hoping the liquid might obliterate this recollection.

“We turned him into meat,” you mutter. Once more, your gaze goes to Angel. His sweet, kind face settles onto you, like his eyes are deep cleansing pools promising you forgiveness and comfort.

“Fuck. I belong down here.”

He takes your hand with his own, giving a wry smile. “Makes two of us.”

Realization hits you. “I’ve never told anyone that.”

Angel presses another palm into his impromptu cleavage. “And ya’ shared it with me? Aww, how romantic.”

It’s hard fighting back a laugh. God, Angel Dust, _god._ Even in presence of criminal acts and callous brutality, he _still_ managed to find the good. He looked beyond it and saw nothing but _you_. He cares only that you’re sharing a secret, not the deed itself.

The feeling of pain and sickness leaves you. “You are, without a doubt, the best fucking thing that’s ever happened to me.”

He seems amused. “And I’m a whore! How sad is _that!?”_

Maybe it’s the alcohol, or your desire to forget. Maybe it’s this part of town. Or maybe you _yearn_ for Angel Dust in a way you can’t quite explain, a hunger overtaking you that’s _desperate_ to show him he’s the only thing in this universe mattering to you. You want everything for him – to be happy, to feel happy, to feel _good._ Maybe it’s that.

And you’re horny.

“I could fuck this whore right on the table.”

His pinkish cheeks turn a bright shade of red. “O-oh? Huahaha, wow, pockets! Look at _you._ Went from havin’ a gab about going all _Saw Two_ on some schlub to. . . well.”

He grants a dark sneer. “I’ll take care of ya’.”

But you don’t just _want_ that. You don’t want to use Angel Dust like he’s a cock sock. You want to give it back, all of it. And you will.

You squeeze his hand, looking around. “Dine and dash?” you say.

He snickers. “Technically ya’ didn’t even eat, so.”

Good enough for you.

-*-

Almost every corner of Pentagram City – that you know of – hosts a seedy dive for seedier demons to dwell for the night. Cheap hotels for a quick romp. Or maybe somewhere to get wasted, or hide. But they’re plentiful, and much like your double date, you and Angel find yourself a corner of the underworld to stay. No one knows where either of you are, and that’s perfect. It feels like, for the first time, it’s just you and him, and nothing else matters.

You find it impossible to describe the ache consuming you. The intangible, emotional weight binding you to Angel is more potent than any substance you’ve taken, more thrilling than any heist. Your flesh demands his proximity, your fetid soul voracious for his presence. He is his name. Addictive in all the best ways, and you never want to be sober again.

You find somewhere that’s suitable. A motel only serving one purpose: to give you both some privacy. A window grants view of the city, but who fucking cares? You’re in the room, interior washed with dull ambient light, and you hold him close, grip tight around his slender waist, minding the clamp of your prosthetic.

You breathe. Perfume consumes you. It’s sweet, aromatic, therapeutic. It presses you on, nudging your hips to touch his, bestial root stirring to life.

Guttural mumblings leave you, honest and raw. They’re from the deepest recesses of _you._

“Fuck, _fuck,_ Angel. I need you so badly, it hurts.”

He’s got his arms around you, and his lips pressed to yours. You can taste his words.

“Don’t like it when you hurt,” he says, tone hot and wanting. You kiss back, a monstrous appetite for his soft, welcoming lips driving you on. You stare into his eyes – they’re wellsprings of comfort. They’re portals of lust, they promise everything a man desires. But for you? They’re heaven. A window into the vulnerable Angel Dust, the _real_ Angel Dust.

You hiss, and you keep him embraced in a vice grip. Your forehead presses to his.

“Angel. . .” Hoarse, real, honest. If ever once in your miserable existence you were truthful, it was _now._

“I want to be everything to you. I want to be yours.” You say this through a sequence of kisses, caressing his back.

All measure of reservation and control have abandoned you. These are not things you’d say openly, if ever, kept close and buried. The mobsters taught you – if you expose your chest, you’ll get stabbed. But you can’t help it. You’re lost in this storm called “you and Angel Dust.” If you drown, you will not swim back up. Hold the knife, Angel Dust, hold it.

He nips at your neck. “Then be you,” he says.

[You needed nothing else.](https://youtu.be/BEtnzgxFSvQ)

Clothing is a distraction you will no longer tolerate. You pull away your suit, hand sneaking underneath Angel’s rump, snagging his lace and stripping it down. He returns in favor, extra hands gripping your waist, belt, and buttons, pulling them away with practiced grace. Before long, your flesh and his silk fluff embrace the other, tickled by proximity. Your engorged flesh slips underneath his waist, dribbling, and it’s hard to the point of pain. You don’t think you’ve ever been this aroused in your entire existence, living and not.

Angel notices. “Nnholy shit, babe, high noon already?”

He yanks you into him, spinning to shove you upon the bed. You want to protest this, you want _him_ to feel appreciated too, but Angel has plans.

“Angel. . .”

He grins. “Shhh. Can’t shove this six-shooter up m’holster like _that,_ pockets. You’d tear me in half.”

He winks, sweet, soft lips racing to your length, licking the tip and embracing it in his maw. They wrap around your inches, puckered on the crown, applying therapeutic kisses. But this time, they’re different. Slower, heated. Attentive. They’re not like before – where he used his mouth aligned with his profession. His motions are for you now. His tongue slipping to your testes, your length, your tip, they’re all done to get _you_ off specifically.

His cheek bulges, eyes locked to yours, voice caught with mumbles as he tosses his head on your root in slow, slick strikes. Each one pulls a long, wanting groan from you, and you clench the sheets. You’re goin’ on a trip. Angel, wonderful Angel.

He takes your length in hand, massaging it with careful strokes, cupping your stones and squeezing them _carefully,_ until your spear shimmers with a sticky coat of presex and saliva. Once more, he grants the end a longing, loving bess.

“Mwah.”

You pet through his silky hair tuft, prompting the spider to shift. He rises, curvaceous form crawling over you, and you can see him prepare to sink on your voracious length. No.

Angel has given you far more than any reasonable person would. Since the beginning, he’s lied for you, protected you, listened to you. Your friend. . . now lover. For once, you want to return the favor. With delicate force, you take his shoulders and swing him to back, where _you_ lie over him. He yelps, intrigued, eyes wide with curiosity.

You press your lips to his. “Let me,” you say. Let me, god, just let me be good to you.

His hands slip around your shoulder, your neck, stroking your head.

His mouth parts to hit you with a clever quip, but you don’t listen. You press yourself into him, twitching cock parting his pucker and filling his tight hole, spreading him, a snug fit. He mewls in response, a quivering moan escaping him as he holds you tight. You grunt too, nose into neck, supporting yourself with prosthetic. Your other palm, though, that finds his hand, and you hold it, clench it, let your fingers dance with his.

The back and forth starts with a gentle momentum like it always does. But it’s thirsty, wanting. The hunger you have for Angel is indescribably endless. Every motion you take, every careful thrust of your hips is done with the spider in mind. It feels incredible, as it usually does, but in the back or your conscious, the driving factor is thus: this is for him. No one but him.

How the _hell_ did you end up here? How is it you came to find yourself tangled in the embrace of the spider? This damaged, yet complete person?

The motions are smooth, precise. Each impact of thighs to his prompts a timid buck, forcing the bed to whine. The dizzying ambiance of Pentagram City is barely audible above your grunts and his cooing gasps, as though you both have shut it away. With every dive and rise of your member, his pink ring coaxes you with a caressing, choking grip, filling you – and him – with increasing waves of hot bliss.

You surge into him not long after, but it’s only the beginning. As your seed pours into his rectal ring, you take the opportunity to explore the rest of this sweet spider. Your lips collide with his neck, shoulders, between his chest fluff, his stomach (now a mess from his own peak). You taste him, letting digits dive and roam every inch that exists of cream, pink-spotted body.

“Nnuh?” Angel’s face is flush with red and sweat, and he watches you sink to _his_ loins, where you sample him. Can’t imagine many demons go here, if ever. Based on his reaction, you’re safe on that bet.

You don’t care. You taste his issue, you kiss his hard member, go so far as to take it in your mouth. Now you’re not quite a professional here, but you do recall some things: watch the teeth. So you do. You kiss him, much like he’s done a thousand times, nurse him, suckle the root, in servile appreciation.

“H-heh, p-pockets. . .”

Quiet gasps and approving groans form a chorus between you, and it’s a heavenly thing to hear your Angel beside himself.

You stroke him, curious. “Can see why you like doing this,” you say. Not your specialty, but you’re more than happy to do it for the spider.

“Mff,” he mumbles. He caresses your head, lifting it. “Come back.”

You blink back to him. You do, without hesitation. Once more, you’re tangled in an embrace, and the night is warm and fuzzy. You sit with him, his supple, generous rear sinking on your cock as he bounces softly, your bodies pressed together. It’s rare that either of you are more than a few inches apart, and it will remain this way.

You ache, you ache, and you need more. So you do more.

Positions exchange, peak reached every time. Watching Angel’s member spring to life with a jet of seed only encourages you on. You thrust into him from behind, pushing him to all fours. He tosses himself on your flag, a cowboy on your saddle. You push his ankle to neck, punishing his hole with pumping, throbbing thrusts. Then you soften, letting him back on top, stroking him gently and sweetly.

Time vaporizes. You lose track of all minutes. Maybe hours. The only thing you recall is total and complete exhaustion, bursting with one more river of seed into his already drenched hole. And then you both collapse, utterly obliterated, gripping each other, weak in the other’s embrace.

“Fucking Christ babe,” Angel rasps, heavy breaths coating his words. “T-the hell was in those drinks?”

You force a chuckle. “Really shit booze.”

He rests on you, head under chin, eyes drifting from closed to open.

“Ufff,” he murmurs. “Think that was breakfast, lunch, _and_ dinner. . .”

You kiss his tuft. “You all right?”

“Fuckin’ amazin.”

You sigh, a sense of comfort washing over you. Safety, hope. Happiness. You clasp him with your prosthetic.

“This feel okay?”

He shrugs. “Don’t bother me. Really should get a dildo for that thing.”

The thought. . . is intriguing. “I’ll consider it.”

He chuckles, but it's faint. He’s drifting, not that you blame him.

His breath finds a quiet rhythm, eyelids shut. “Angel?” The spider doesn’t respond, asleep.

“. . .I love you.”

There’s a drooling grumble in response, but you’re not sure he heard you. That’s fine.

When you close your eyes, you forget everything for a little while longer. The memories, the family, the people. What’s ahead. But it will not last for long. Even in the warmth of this temporary bedroom, even with the most precious thing in your hold, even with the returned love of your boyfriend, there’s an unsteady chill in the air.

Your gaze drifts to the window. Somewhere, in all that chaos, Abaddon is waiting. You have to make it right. You have to fix this.

But you’re not afraid anymore.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This whole thing was supposed to be a sticky, smutty slice of intimacy inspired by the horny, porny tones of Ginuwine's "Pony." And I guess it still is. But I wanted to separate this with some far more intimate. Angel's fucked a lot of people. He hasn't made love though. Now that's changed.


	12. The Hotel - Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sararkk's found the hotel. You've got to save everyone. Angel Dust and the others prepare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fasten your fuckin' seatbelts!

**The Hotel – Part I**

The unkind morning.

Fists clench. Fingers flex. Prosthetic arm hisses with movement. Suit clasps form. Buttons neat. Posture straight. Mind prepared. 1911 holstered. Breath controlled. Focus.

Focus.

_Focus._

There is no going back. You have stolen, you have killed, you have taken. You have gained, you have lost. All things have converged to this point.

You are Anon: Master Thief.

There are no plans left, but one.

You have strolled through the blueprint of what’s to come one hundred times over, and then one hundred times more. Each second sequenced, each phase practiced in your mind. Preparation is crucial. Execution is everything else.

But you don’t know what lies ahead. You don’t know what to expect, or whether you’ll need your wits, a drill, a lockpick, explosives, all of them, none of them. _You don’t know._ It’s this ignorance eating away at you, nesting in your mind like a seed of fear. If you let it, it will sprout roots and take hold, and this is all for naught. You can’t let it. You have to focus. You have to focus for _him._ For Angel.

You’ve told him what’s happening. What you’ll do. Quiet words, soft words, exchanged as you both woke in the frailty of Hell’s morning.

 _“Just come back, dumbass,"_ he had said behind a weak, forced smile.

 _"I will,"_ you promised, lying. Because you didn't know what was going to happen.

And then you both embraced and kissed, afraid to speak again. There was little else to do but act.

But you always come back. You’ll come around again. You have to. You must.

You can’t bear to see him anymore, not like this. You can’t go on knowing what’s at stake, leaving it unresolved. The longer you stay, the more you cement this city’s doom, and with it, Angel. No more sweet nights to protect you, no more escaping into the bottom of bottles, no more sanctuary found in conversation. Now, today. Fight or die. Crawl out of the pit or fall in it. It was the only lesson life ever taught you – take what is yours or lose it. Take this day, Anon, or lose everything.

A deep breath. You give yourself one last check in the mirror. All things are accounted for. It’s just like a score, nothing else. And all scores share one thing in common: they have locks. You break the lock, you win. You don’t have a key, but perhaps you can make the key, or _force_ the key. You’ll put a gun to the Devil’s head for all the good it does you. But _you will find a way._ If you don’t. . .

You leave for the hallway, to Hox’s room. Every step carries a weight greater than a mountain, every moment slowed into fractions. How you wish you could go back and do it all over again. Change your decisions, change your path, yourself. But it’s too late now. The only thing left is your instincts, your knowledge. An eerie quiet suffocates the hall as you go to Hox. Paintings draped on the walls watch you in silent judgment, bearing down on you with contemptuous eyes. You would not blame them. All things are at risk, because of you. Funny, you always wanted Pentagram City to know your deeds, but not like this.

You shake your head. Now is not the time for personal scorn – that comes later. For now, you had a job to do. You arrived at Hox’s door, preparing to knock. But before your fist even hits the wooden frame, it curtly groans open, scent of cologne drifting through. It swings open and out steps Hox in his faded, cheap green suit, adjusting himself as he gives you a knowing glance. As he moves, a timid bleat follows after him.

“ _Baah?”_ it groans, the kind of post-wakeup noise you make after a long night of exhaustive rest. Was that. . . Razzle?

You blink. Hox turns his head to answer the voice. “It’s fine, it’s fine. Go back to sleep. I just need to. . . run an errand. I’ll see you two again in a bit.”

Hox shuts the door, clearing his throat. You smirk.

“Hox. You didn’t.”

He straightens his tie. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, boss.”

You shake your head. “Horny ass mutt.”

The Doberman demon shrugs. “What can I say? They really like donuts.”

“Is that a euphemism for Doberman nuts?”

He starts shaking with a deep laugh, slapping you on your shoulder. You laugh too. You both know what’s about to happen. Why not do it with a smile?

When you both settle, the quiet returns. Damnable quiet. All that’s left is to meet Alastor, something neither if you are looking forward to. But like everything, it’s a necessity. Your fate in the hands of a trickster known for making deals and slaughtering hundreds. It’s Hell alright.

At the end of the hall, he’s waiting. A dapper demon draped in scarlet eyes wearing an uncaring, unending grin. His hands are folded neatly behind him, a reservoir of control disguising the malicious torrent of doom he brings to anyone. When you approach, he tilts his head, grin widening – if that were even possible – obliging your approach with a soft nod.

“Good _morning_ to you both! It’s a _beautiful_ day in Pentagram City, isn’t it? Suffering, eternal fire, _terrible_ music. Everyone’s still resting right now, I bet! Probably safe, warm, with their eternal loves. . .”

He flashes a glance to you. You bristle, and Hox rumbles with a dark growl.

What the hell, you’re probably dead anyway. “Fuck you too, Al.”

Alastor’s head flings back with a ring of chuckles, voice coated with distorted static. “That’s the spirit!” he says, swinging an arm.

“Tell me, are you prepared?” he adds, leaning.

You and Hox exchange glances. “Probably not,” you say.

More laughter. “Hah! Risking the life of _everyone_ on a probably! Oh, Anon, that’s so _cold!”_

In his usual, cryptic, sociopathic manner, he stares you down, eyes fractioning in sparks of red. “You’ll need that.”

Your soul shivers. But more to the point, time is wasting. “Well, we’ll never know how 'ruthless' I am until we get on with it,” you say, wearing a sarcastic tone.

Alastor bows. “Of course, of course! Right this way, gentlemen.”

Your prosthetic clenches. This was it, no turning back. It was like following the grim reaper to have a gander at your tombstone. As much as your flesh protested, you had to follow. You and Hox walked with Alastor until you reached a room – certainly not _his –_ Devil only knew where this thing _truly_ found respite. But you entered an interior similar to a parlor. Gentle, distorted music played on a lone record, trails of odorous cigar smoke filled the air, a table covered with rivers of paper, and a desk. On that desk, a complex apparatus resided, equipped with a microphone, something a broadcaster might use.

You entered, Hox behind, a chill settling over you. It was quaint this room, like a vista out of the 20’s, but there was an intangible sense of menace lingering in the walls. Quicker you got out of here, the better. You think you’d prefer the Devil’s vault over this.

“Won’t take but a moment, gents!” Alastor said, striding past you and Hox. “I’ll make it snappy like! The seconds aren’t on our side, ohohoho!”

Hox shifted, uneasy. “Why?”

Alastor shoots him a sneer, waltzing to the radio, taking a seat. His hands flick out, adjusting a few dials as a strange overcast of static fills the room. Alastor pulled the microphone to his lips, ears wiggling, as if listening for something.

“Now, where were you hiding. . .” he muttered, eyes thoughtful. The longer he does it, the more unnerved you feel.

Alastor loses himself in a trance, humming an unfamiliar tune, pupils vanishing from his eyes as they warp into staring, lidless voids. As he does, a discordant frequency squeals from the radio machine, like it’s flicking through broadcasts. Save these aren’t different radio stations. . . they’re people. Or demons, in this case. Each eruption of static jumps from voice to voice, like a voracious wolf pouncing on fresh prey. Words are disconnected and you only make out brief enunciations, fragments from broken discussions. Or thoughts.

“Ah. . .”

Then, with an abrupt shriek, it’s quiet. A single hiss fills the room, a crackle of dim electronic fuzz. No voices, no words, no songs, no music.

“Stay tuned,” says Alastor with a grim chuckle. He flicks something on his machine, then stands, returning gaze to you both.

“I believe this is your stop,” he says. You look around. What the hell was he talking about?

He senses your question, gesturing behind you. There’s a powerful ‘ding.’ You and Hox look to discover the source, seeing only a door. Was that always there? It does it again. _Ding. Ding. Ding._ Sharp chimes, like a funeral bell. But this is an elevator. An elevator?

“Fucking what?” Hox says, staring.

It is, in fact, an elevator. The door slides open with a smooth, cold groan, revealing an interior of scarlet wallpaper and gentle ambient light. What foul sorcery Alastor called on to accomplish something like this, you aren’t sure. You don’t want to know, either.

“This gets us to the vault?” you say, glancing at Al.

“Indubitably,” he responds with a cordial shrug. “You’ll go in. You’ll come out. Right where you need to be.”

“How?” Hox grumbles. “You tellin’ me the vault is right _here?”_

Alastor laughs, as though you and Hox should know. “Now, now, my dear boy. Even I won’t spoil Lucy’s secret.”

You step forward. “How do we get back?”

A glance back to Alastor. His grin never changes, and again, he leans. “Not to worry, Anon. _I’ll know.”_

Hox growls, muttering. “Fuuuckin’ prick.”

A breath. It doesn’t matter. The only thing now is to act. You look at Hox, speaking with silence. No more stalling.

Both of you enter the elevator. The dial has no numbers, just a set of words: GOING DOWN. The doors hiss shut, and the last thing you see of the Hotel is Alastor’s repulsive, malicious smile. Fuck.

Once it closes, you feel. . . alone. It’s as though someone has sealed your coffin. Maybe they have. Maybe this was your tomb.

“Please tell me you can still see out of your eye,” Hox says, muzzle frowning.

At this point, the left side of your vision is a veil of black. “Nope.”

Hox laughs again, hard. “Hahaha. We’re gonna’ fucking die.” He shuffles with his suit, pulling out a pair of objects from his coat pocket. Cigars.

He hands one to you. You take it wordlessly.

The air around you shifts, changing. You can’t say what, exactly, but it’s like you’re moving. The shadows from the dull light deform and writhe like a dance macabre, the air thick with tense heat. The elevator is moving, but it’s _not._

You look down. A viscous, liquid dark appears. The room, you, and Hox start to sink in it. Oh _shit_.

Either Alastor just killed you both, or the next time those doors opened you were at the Devil’s vault.

-*-

Sarakk knocked his head against the vehicle roof. He clicked with a grunt. That was the fourteenth one! Every bump on these damnable roads sent a jolt through him, wobbling him around like a burlap puppet.

Despite this “luxury car” having space suited for multiple passengers, it wasn’t remotely spacious enough for him. He was huddled on a seat of pink leather, long legs pressed into his abdomen, multiple gangrel arms curled around his joints as he peered at his entourage. The two big ones kept their dozen-or-so eyes on him, tense, ready to whip out their useless firearms and unleash another barrage of equally useless bullets. The smallest one though – Arackniss – he didn’t care. He looked positively _pissed._ Had all the humor of Abaddon too.

Sarakk liked the little spunk of piss and vinegar. It wouldn’t matter in the end, wouldn’t keep him alive, but hey, he was calling the shots. Impressive for a squirt.

Another bump. Sarakk hissed. “I’d like to think we’re getting close. I’d like to, because the next time I bump my head I’m ripping a hole in this. . .”

He wiggled his claw, gesturing above. “Thing.”

Arackniss raised a reassuring hand. “Not much longer. Have to take the safe roads. Don’t usually come into this territory.”

Sarakk was mildly curious. “Territory?”

The small one sighed, coated in irritation. “That’s right. Ever since the spawn of Lucifer’s loins set up shop, all the gangs got pushed out. And my _brother. . .”_

Sarakk saw the little one grit his fangs at the word, only to wince and rub his cracked jaw again.

“Fucking queen thought he’d carve out a piece for himself. Dishonorable little. . .”

An incoherent muttering of swears and slurs erupted from the spider. Sarakk raised a claw.

“Alright, alright, I get the picture.”

Arackniss grunted. “Hmph. Well. It’s where you fit in. We get you there, you do what you’ve been doing. That’s the deal.”

Sarakk looked out the window, watching the twisted city blur by. “I never made a deal, but sure, whatever.”

Deals, territories, what did this even mean? He’d been gone for a long, long time. Loathe he was to question the design of his masters, but back in his day, Hell _was_ the territory. This city, all of it was. . . unbecoming.

“I’ve never heard of you, cockroach,” continued the small one. “Where the hell have you been?”

Sarakk’s black, ceaseless pupils returned to the spider. “Hell.”

His antennate wiggled, struggling against car roof. “And cockroach? Sir, God made me in his image,” he chittered, adopting a faux-cheery tone, claws clasped together.

Then, his bulbous, black eyes flashed with a wave of scarlet, a hue of deep, impenetrable hatred, a color concocted by the sheer, unrelenting malice of his lord Abaddon.

“ _Before He cast me out and threw me down here with the rest of you.”_

Everything went silent, save for the drone of the vehicle and dismal ambiance of Pentagram City. It remained so until the vehicle slowed, coming to a rumbling stop.

Arackniss glanced to his side, looking through the door window. He gestured.

“That’s it,” he intoned, voice notably weaker. Sarakk looked too.

“Finally!” The locust tossed his arms up in jubilation, ripping through the roof metal like soft flesh.

Awkwardly, he started to push and yank himself out of the black car, his hard carapace shearing the machine apart as he shattered the door. It groaned and spat with greasy smoke, Sarakk leaving a cavernous hole in the steel chariot, turning back to his ‘escorts.’

“Thanks!”

Arackniss and his guards boggled, clenching their seats, as the vehicle drifted away, _slowly,_ pieces of its frame dragging on the hard asphalt.

Sarakk stretched, hard form popping and cracking. “Nice fellows. I’ll eat them last.”

Reddish pink lights danced over his gray, spiky carapace. A block away, before him, was the fancy of his eye, the princess to his quest, the butter to his bread. It stood, a refined building of red bricks and baroque fixtures dotted with amber glass windows, a glorious neon sign crowned on its dazzling entrance: HAPPY HOTEL. His antennae wiggled and his sharp mandibles clicked together. Wonderful. If anyone knew the whereabouts of the _Saint’s Arm,_ Apple Daddy’s little Seed surely would. Or even better, _maybe she had it._

The proximity made him. . . salivate.

He moved. His elongated limbs cracked the road as he strode along, towering frame casting a grim shadow. Could they feel it? In the air? Oh, it was so long since he was this excited.

So long since he tasted the blood of immortals.

-*-

Only one way to quit a bad morning: booze and drugs. Preferably both, preferably at the same time, and preferably _a lot_ of it.

Angel had to settle for shots, spiking his. . . what was it, coffee? Ugh, no, tea or something. He wasn’t paying attention. Hard to. Everything was out of focus, a dancing blur. His mind was a mess. He didn’t want to think or contemplate or _feel._ Maybe he could drink himself into a short coma, and when he woke up. . . Anon would be there. He’d be there, and this whole thing was a bad dream.

But it was far worse. Far worse than a nightmare. It was reality. All things were coming to a head. And it was just so fucking _expected._ He gets tangled up with a guy, again, said guy proceeds to disappear. Maybe for good. Fuck. He couldn’t take this. He didn’t know if he wanted to be sick or angry or sad or all three.

He did his best to put on the “typical Angel” look, but, shit. Couldn’t bury it down. His mascara was smeared and wet eyeliner formed watery blotches around his eyes. He rubbed his head, hoping he might conjure a subject that might distract him, but, none came. Dammit.

_Fuck. Fuck you Anon. Why’d it have to go down like this?_

Why did it have to hurt _so much?_

He lied back on the couch, staring at the empty ceiling. Couldn’t stand to be in his own room. Reminded him too much of. . . everything. Chuck was busying herself in the kitchen, working with Raz and Daz (who were strangely off kilter) on something. Breakfast? Probably. Angel didn’t even keep up with time. Didn’t even have the stomach to eat. The spiked drink did little to aid him, turning his contemplations into a sorrowful slurry. Might have something to do with alcohol being a depressant. Who knows?

“Angel?”

A voice normally covered with sardonic overtones and harsh reprisal washed over him. Instead, it was soft, concerned. He closed his eyes. Oh just fucking go away.

He turned into the couch cushions, crossing his arms, silent.

“Bad hangover?”

Vaggie approached, sitting at a chair next to the couch. Angel grumbled. Husk, who was minding the desk, flipped a notary page and coughed with laughter.

“Didn’t you know? His boytoy vamoosed.”

Angel flung up and hissed, teeth clenched, gold tooth glinting. He gave Husk a death stare who – normally one brushing off Angel’s ‘isms’ with callous disregard – felt a spark of unease, if for the briefest of moments. Vaggie looked between the checker-winged cat and the spider, eye widening.

“He. . . left? Why?”

Husk flipped another page. “What'd you expect? He was a thie-”

Something sharp and cold snapped past Husk’s head, colliding with the wood wall behind him - a thrown knife. Angel’s chest heaved, eyes radiating with a fury not seen since. . . well, when? He had another family of little blades ready to go, just  _aching_ for an excuse to lob them.

“Angel!” snapped Vaggie. Husk growled.

“Oh, you wanna’ have a catfight, you fucking she-he, I’ll-”

Vaggie raised a hand. “ _Stop.”_ Her gaze went to Husk.

“Husk. . . give us a minute.”

The winged demon looked between the effeminate arachnid and Vaggie. He rolled his eyes. “Sure. Just keep him on a leash, would ya?”

 _“Youfuckingcuntshitlittle. . .”_ spit Angel through clenched fangs, watching Husk stomp off before resolving to throw himself back into the couch.

Even Vaggie knew something was wrong. “Jee-zus, Angel. Are you. . .”

She was going to say ‘alright,’ but it was clear he _wasn’t._ This was the farthest he’d ever been from that, and she’d seen some of his worst moments. This was different, but, familiar to her as well. A pain she knew, she recognized. A heart in anguish.

No. Was it true? Was Anon really gone? She hadn’t seen him. He was typically a ghost, a spook haunting the halls when it pleased him, but even by this time, he was _somewhere._ Usually with Angel.

She cleared her throat, struggling. She had issues with Angel, but not even he deserved _that_. “I’m sorry,” she managed, tone weak.

“I’m sorry, Angel. If you need to ta-”

“He didn’t leave,” Angel grumbled, voice trembling. “Not like that.”

She blinked, watching him shift, side of white fluff visible. His mismatched eyes glistened, watery, cheeks red.

“Ya’ wanted to know. . .” he started, voice catching.

Know what? Vaggie didn’t understand. What did he me-

Oh. Oh god. The vault. “What, Angel? What is it?”

He shut his eyes. He couldn’t respond, hugging a pillow. “I’m scared.”

At once, realization rushed over Vaggie. The vault, the letter from Mammon, Anon’s sudden disappearance. She remembered what Charlie had said on the night the parchment was delivered to her, expression tugged with anxious worry.

 _“I think I know what this is,”_ she had said. _“But I hope I’m wrong.”_

She felt pity and concern. She went to the couch, kneeling at Angel’s side, rubbing his shoulder. “Shh. Angel. It’ll be all right. I don’t know what’s going on. But it’ll be all right.”

She squeezed him, reassuring. “You’re with us. You’re safe.”

Angel bristled, frame tightening. “Ain’t worried about that,” he said, voice muffled, whimpering.

She sighed. He meant Anon, then. The strange specter appearing on their doorstep. Someone who did nothing but steal, lie, and cloak himself with the Hotel. He was trouble. He could’ve been _more_ trouble, certainly, but there were habits he just couldn’t quit. Vaggie wanted to turn him away. And yet. . . she knew there was something in the thief still good, somewhere. Buried behind his insecurities, his manipulations. But it was there. She didn’t blame him, not entirely. His life – whatever it was – held a familiarity, the kind only respecting violence and crime. She knew it too.

And he cared about Angel Dust, and _this_ she'd bet her life on. She saw it, plain as day when they were together. At the restaurant, in bed, in casual company. Never knew someone like the spider could fall so hard. . .

She didn't want to lie. She didn’t know what Anon was doing, but, it was probably dangerous. She did think of one thing, though.

“He loves you. It’s all that matters.”

This caused Angel to turn. Now his face was _really_ a mess of blemished eyeliner and mascara, rivers of thin black streaming down his cheeks.

“V-vaggie. . .” he muttered. “I c-can’t. . .”

She hugged him. “Shhh.”

“It’ll be okay,” she said, uncertain. “It will. Easy Angel, you’re messing up your makeup.”

He sniffed, looking at her, a faint, timid smile catching his features.

They stayed this way a while until their embrace was broken by a cheery, doting voice. “Guys!”

Charlie pranced in, wearing a smile. “Breakfast is ready, I hope you like. . .” she trailed off, spying the sputtering Angel and the concerned Vaggie.

“Oh.”

Vaggie looked to _her_ lover, and Charlie met this with a flash of concern. “What? What’s wrong? Angel?”

Angel flinched, hiding in Vaggie. It was clear he didn’t want to be seen this way – he was a specimen of owning his appearance and looking like a sobbing, broken mess was anathema to his style.

“Vaggie?”

Vag pet her friend’s head, dress stained with tears. “Anon,” she said quietly. “He’s. . . not here.” She elected to avoid the word ‘gone.’

Charlie blinked, reality settling over her. Gone? Why? Was it. . .

Oh no.

“Vaggie,” she said quietly. “We need to get everyone together.”

Her number one tilted head, confused. “Why?”

Before Charlie responded, something caught her ear. A strange, sickening sound, like the clicking of bone and metal. It was muffled, yet close. It was like a metronome. _Click. Click. Click._ Each one grew louder and louder. Her alabaster skin shuddered, crawling with goosebumps, a dark chill running up her back.

_[Click. Click. CLICK.](https://youtu.be/9B355G56Hzw) _

Her gaze snapped to the Hotel door. Through the stained window adorning its frame, blackness appeared. Someone was out there. Or. . . something. Again, she looked at Vaggie.

“ _Get everyone together. Now.”_

The fearful, yet commanding tone snapped Vaggie to attention. She nodded, lifting Angel. “Come on, come on.”

A glance back to Charlie. “Where?”

Charlie’s features narrowed, staring at the door. _“Upstairs.”_

Angel perked, watery eyes blinking, looking at Charlie and Vaggie. “W-what. . .”

“Come on!” rushed Vaggie, tugging him away. Charlie, in the meantime, clenched her fists. She took in a long, deep breath, going to the door, folding her fingers together.

The air was cold.

When Vaggie and Angel Dust cleared out, she stood before the door. Her hand went for the handle, hesitating. She closed her eyes, pulling in a long, controlled breath.

She swung it open.

She looked. . . up. At once, recognition hit her. Gifted with her Father’s sight, she could see the denizens and demons for what they were, at will, staring into their fetid souls, taking a census of all their deeds, taking stock of their aura. Some were worse, some were better. But this. . .

Deep, unending, endless black. An abyssal void wearing the skin of some creature. It towered, several hands higher than her, even taller than Angel, a malignant being dressed in the carapace of some wretched insect. Torn wings adorned a shell of dismal grey, ugly spikes prodding from its features, elongated legs and limbs beset with claws that looked to tear flesh from bone like soft meat. Its horrid, bulbous eyes were grim and red, tiny pupils sitting in suns of scarlet, a repulsive array of mandibles accompanying its sinister presence.

“Hi,” it said, a voice shrill, cold, pleasant. And full of hate.

It didn’t belong here. It wasn’t from this Hell. It was twisted, tormented, mutated. The origin of its presence was unknown to her, but, one thing was absolutely and utterly clear: it was a threat.

She wore a cheerful, delighted smile. “Oh! Hello!”

The locust’s head tilted at an unnatural angle, and a horrid chorus of cutting clicks drifted from its maw, like it had discovered a tasty morsel of meat.

“Can I help you, sir? I’m sorry if I didn’t hear you, was making breakfast, is all.”

She kicked the door shut behind her. It _could not_ be permitted to get past.

It raised a claw, apologetic. “Breakfast? Ohhh, think nothing of it, kiddo. An important meal of the day. Everyone’s gotta’ eat.”

It stared at her. “Everyone.”

She tensed. “Are you hungry?”

The thing laughed. “Me? Oh, always. But don’t you worry your pretty little head. I’m actually just stopping by, sightseeing, getting to know my neighbors. Looking for an arm. Looking for you. Charlotte.”

Charlie’s smile faltered, placing hands behind back. Looking for. . . an arm? An arm. Oh, no. Anon’s arm?

She giggled. “Well I think you’ll agree, there’s a whole lot of them out there!” A gesture to the foul thing.

“And you look like you’ve plenty to spare!”

It laughed again. It was a repulsive, disgusting sound.

“How do you know my name?” added Charlie, tone darkening.

It started snapping its fingers. “Oh, yeah. Saw you on the picture thing. Flashy screen.”

“. . .a television.”

“Good guess!”

Her smile faded. “And why were you looking for me?”

It grumbled. “I must be mincing my words, today. Sorry, been asleep for a few dozen thousand years.”

Now, it leaned, bearing its sinister visage in front of Charlie. One of its eyes was large as her head, and its pupils focused on her, piecing.

_“I said, I’m looking for the arm.”_

Charlie straightened her scarlet top. “I’m afraid I can’t help you, mister. . .”

“Sarakk.”

She shuddered. “Yes, well. An arm is an arm. I don’t know why you think I’d know any better.”

A cold, shrill chuckle left the being. “Awww. You’re just like your old man. Deceitful. But, sweetheart, you’re just too darn _nice._ I can **taste** the lie.”

Sarakk straightened. “Look, I won’t be a fuss. Promise. I just wanna’ check around, is all. I’ll be out of that pretty hair and you can go back to blueberries and mutton, or, er, whatever you kids eat these days.”

It tried to step past her, but Charlie’s hand shot out. **“No.”**

Her eyes sparked, flashing with red, a terrible grin stretching her face, teeth shifting to deathly knives.

“Take one more step, mister Sarakk, and you _will_ regret it.”

He cackled. “Famous last words.”

He attempted to move. In a flash, an eruption of golden energy coalesced from Charlie’s palm, snakes of lightning pulsing through her limb until it met his carapace. A loud, deafening _crack_ shattered the air, a gust of wind bursting from the impact. Sarakk blinked. He was in front of Charlie. Then, he was on his back, thrown hundreds of meters backward, flung into the wall of a particularly unfortunate building, a trail of fire, debris, and blood connecting him to the now distant entrance of the Happy Hotel. He bounced liked a hapless pebble, kicking up city debris with every impact.

“Bhrhfhfhrgh. . .” he gurgled. Slowly, he pushed himself up. Stone and asphalt fell off his unblemished shell while he rubbed the dimensions of his head.

“Well fuck me with a saint. I felt that.”

He looked around. How far was he thrown? Charlie was a speck now – albeit a bright, gold-rimmed speck – just _taunting_ him with her power. Well, good golly miss molly! This was a real firecracker. He stood now, rotating his limbs and frame in an unnatural, cyclonic matter.

“Okay,” he hissed. He started walking forward again. “Kids these days.”

-*-

“Ohhh _shit!”_

Husk rubbed his head, taking a sip from his flask. He wasn’t drunk enough for this!

Everyone watched in shock horror at the scene below. They were camped out in Charlie’s room – arguably the safest part of the Hotel (for the moment) – looking through the main window. None of them expected it. The Goat Bois gawked, looking between each other, fluttering aimlessly. Husk's usually surly features were stretched with astonishment. Vaggie wore a concerned expression – though muttered a _fuck yeah_ at the sight of her girlfriend’s power. Even Angel snapped out of it, wiping his eyes.

Understanding erupted in the spider. Whatever that _thing_ was, it was here for Anon. What else? The longer it stayed, the more trouble it would cause. He had every bit of respect for Charlie, despite his chiding remarks, but he didn’t know what the creature could do, or how long she could keep up, well, _herself._ It was a lot of power. But too much at once, and even the Devil’s Daughter might fizzle out.

So, what? Was he gonna’ just sit here, cry like a bitch and take it? That’s exactly what people wanted him to do all his life. To sit, shut up, take it. Quiet him, subdue his choices, his lifestyle. What would Molly say? What would _Anon_ say?

Fuck that. _Fuck_ that, fuck this, and specifically _fuck that guy._ He was **Angel fucking Dust.** People jacked off to him as much as they feared and respected him. That’s why he kept a whole dresser full of weapons, for dick’s sake!

“Vaggie,” he said. She was still at his side, glancing up to him.

“Come with me.”

“Huh?”

Wordlessly, he tugged her along, much to her protests. “A-Angel! Whoa! The hell are you doing!?”

As he pulled her with him, he smirked. He had a fucking anti-material rifle with this bug’s name on it, and he'd been  _itchin'_ to break it out again.

He reached his door, shoving it open, prancing towards a black dresser emblazoned in pink skulls. No more tears. He grinned, gold tooth glinting.

“Doin' what I do best, baby.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued in Part II.


	13. The Hotel - Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're at the vault, while Charlie fends off Sarakk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> . . .

**The Hotel – Part II**

_Ding._

You gasp. Cold air meets your lungs as you siphon as much oxygen as you can from your surroundings. Heaving, hands to knees, vision muddled. Black, sticky shadow pulls away from your features, a sensation most horrible, a writhing mass chewing at your diseased soul. Slowly, it falls to the floor like a viscous tar, save it leaves no residue. As the foul ichor starts to dissipate, your surroundings clarify, return to focus, understanding gaining puchase. You’re in the elevator. At your side, the boggling figure of Hox, leaning into the wall, his grey fur pale from fear, like you’ve both walked through the waters of death. Maybe you have.

If so, you came out alive, flesh intact. You stare at your hands, flex your fingers – meat and metal alike – feeling your chest, as though expecting a cavernous wound or something worse. But no, it’s all there. You’re there, alive. So is your partner in crime. You can hardly believe it, but Alastor’s done his job.

With a low groan, the elevator doors slide open. You look at Hox, who appears to be nursing a panic attack, breathing and wiping sweat from his canid features.

“You okay?” you say.

He stares at the ground. “Fucking _no.”_ He takes another gulp of air before swinging his eyes to you.

“We were just _inside_ of him?”

“Who? Alastor?”

Hox offers a feverish nod. You shake your head, shrugging. “I. . . guess. Well, scratch that off the bucket list. How’d you put it? ‘Visit his downtown’?”

Hox shakes like a dog throwing off water, shivering. “Yeah, and like I thought, he ain’t a cuddler.”

You let the dog collect himself, stepping outside the elevator. You expected a wall, a building, or something elaborate. Grand in scale, befitting the Lord of Hell, a majestic building rivaling that of Fort Knox. Except. . . the elevator was connected to nothing. In fact, as you turned to see Hox wobble his way out, the elevator was _itself,_ shadows surrounding its foot with nothing above. It wasn’t even connected to a wall because there was no wall!

No, instead, behind the elevator was a hallway you could only describe as endless. Like the throat of some gigantic creature, a tongue of scarlet carpet drifted off into a literal pinpoint of white. Below you was _nothing._ Utter, inconceivable nothing. This hall had no floor aside from the thin bridge you stood on, but below it, a void of vast, ceaseless dark. When you looked at it, it hurt, pricking your eye with a cold, electric pain. You couldn’t imagine where you were – but this was a fucking fantastic spot to hide something.

As Hox straightened, the elevator made another ‘ding,’ doors sliding shut. Then, it drifted back into the floor, eaten by the viscous shadows wreathing around it. When it dissipated into the floor, an impenetrable silence fell over you and Hox. This was it. No return now. Succeed or fail. Live or die.

“Uh. . .”

Hox was looking ahead of you, eyes wide. You turned to see what caught his attention.

There it was.

A massive frame of gold loomed over you. a monolith of man’s greed, perfect in shape and hue, a seamless rectangle standing upon a wide, circular pedestal. In front of it, a small dais rested at its foot, seated in the floor. Behind the shape? The void. It rested in no wall, it had no ceiling, it had no knobs, no handles. It was just a door. A door of gold.

It was the Devil’s Vault, and you had to get into it.

“Well, shit,” Hox said, rubbing his head. “You know, I was kind of expecting more.”

“Careful,” you add. “We don’t know if it’s trapped.”

Then again. . . if the hall’s length was any indication, that _was_ the trap. Where you were and how you got there was likely impossible without Alastor’s assistance. Lucy didn’t strike you as the type to install swinging pendulums and snake-filled pitfalls. No, he’d relish the opportunity to employ something poetic, something driving home a lesson about sin, or whatever. Maybe the hall never ended, or reset, or wasn’t real to begin with.

Hox grumbled. “Not so worried about that.”

He stepped forward, gesturing around it. “More like. . . you see this?”

You glanced from his fingers to the gold frame. “No?”

“Exactly. Nothing there. No keyholes, no locks, no levers. If this is a vault, well fuck me man.” His eyes come to you, perplexed.

“How the fuck do we open it?”

That was, indeed, the question. Alastor was ‘kind’ enough to get you here, but not benign to actually _explain_ how to get in the bitch. Then again, perhaps he didn’t know either. Seeing as how Hox was okay, you join him at his side, scanning over the golden portal. You chanced something, reaching out with your prosthetic, hoping the arm might do something, cause a reaction. Nothing. You pressed around it, seeking a pressure point, a slit, something which might imply a key going into a hole. But with malignant silence, no solution presented itself.

Holy shit, this was bad.

You’ve seen a variety of lock mechanisms in your time, and not that you expected the Devil to follow suit with such _expected_ antics, but you were hoping for anything, any kind of visual cue. Cold fear grips your heart. What if there was no way in? What if this was the ultimate folly, the punishment for greed and vanity? It’d be Lucifer’s design to lead a hopeful thief to treasure, only to turn around and present them with death. All the promise of gold and wealth in one spot, yet, no way to retrieve or get into it.

“Shit. Shit shit.”

Hox chuckled. “I take it you don’t know, either.”

You look at him, panicked. If you don’t get this fucking thing open, _everyone_ is doing to die. _Angel_ is going to die.

“Hox,” you hiss, “We _have_ to figure this out.”

He gives you an eye roll. “I _know,_ boss, I know. But unless you’ve got some magic fingers I don’t know about. . .”

“Just look, goddammit.”

Stay calm. Think it through. There had to be a way. This couldn’t have been some ploy by Alastor just to kill you off. Didn’t fit his ‘cannibal holocaust’ style. So then, there _must_ be a solution.

You pace, thinking. All right. It’s not a traditional vault door. You shouldn’t expect it to be. So what were the alternatives? A riddle? A puzzle? Was there something you were missing? The way here wasn’t protected by guards or traps or anything, besides distance. It meant Lucifer had set up something nefarious, something to drive home a lesson or ironic punishment. He was still the Devil, after all.

Hox wasn’t having an easy time either. He sniffed the air, ears wiggling, but he couldn’t procure a solution from the silent leviathan. He tapped it a few times, but nothing happened.

Frustration formed a cloud over you two. The consequences emerged with their ugly little heads, sporting terrible visions. A city on fire, a ruined Hotel. So many dead. Angel, your precious Angel! If you didn’t. . . if you couldn’t. . . it made you sick.

Hox rubbed his jaw, pensive. Lucy was a prime dick, he was.

“I’m not looking at the right thing,” he muttered. His eyes drifted down, leaning on the entrance, arms crossed. He closed them, mulling thoughts. What was he missing. . .

When his eyes opened again, he gazed at the floor. And he saw it. The dais in the ground, a seamless circle of gray stone. It was the only other unique fixture in this place.

“Hey. . .”

You stopped pacing, glancing at him. He gestured, directing you to the shape in the floor, and your eyes widened.

You immediately went to it, kneeling, pressing your hand on it. It was cold, similar to marble, though much like the door it bore no features. Except one. Around it were symbols, syntax unfamiliar to you, black snakes bearing a demonic symbology. You couldn’t make sense of it, but it was your only lead.

“It’s got something on it,” you say. Hox shifts from the vault.

“Lemme see.”

You move, and he presses his shoe against the symbols, studying them. You watch him, hopeful, because if he can’t understand it, well, light em’ up now, everyone was fucked.

“It’s. . . Old Tongue.”

You feel a twinge of relief. “You can read it?”

Hox leans, squinting. “Yeah, uh. I’ve seen it before. Some of the crews I worked with liked to sign it after a score.”

The Doberman grumbles, mouthing out the words. “S. . .” he starts.

He kneels too, tracing a finger against each syntax. “A. . . C. . .”

He continues in a clockwise pattern, reading it out, bit by bit. But every new letter strikes fear in your heart, because as he says it, you think you understand.

_“Sacrificium.”_

The word hangs in the air like a knife to the guts. He clears his throat. “Ah. That’s Latin.”

You don’t even need to translate to understand. “Sacrifice,” you say.

Hox gives a slow, tired nod. “Fuck.”

A dread quiet filled the air. It makes too much sense. Of course. _Of course._ The key to the vault. . . is one of you. How exquisite the punishment then, for a thief to stroll to the vault of the Devil, only to realize, to access it they must give up the only thing they care about: themselves. Because a thief has no friends. A thief has no allies. There is no honor among your kind, and no thief would give _themselves_ up.

One of you has to die.

“There has to be another way,” you say, voice weak, chest cold. Hox laughs. Laughs and laughs and laughs.

“There’s not.”

-*-

Charlie was the storm.

Sparks of gold crackled around her delicate frame, energy of the Archangel wreathed around her, mutating the air, warping the ground. Two horns sprouted from her smooth, white skin, eyes bearing a deep scarlet, a sawtooth grin accompanying her strength. She’d _never_ felt this before, never drawn from the wellspring of her family’s strength like this. It was incredible, a rush. It seemed limitless, like an ocean, and she was only taking a handful of it at a time. But it was _so much!_ Hard to control, hard to keep herself steady and focused. She considered herself a sympathetic, caring person, _despite_ the origin of her Father, and yet. . . this force, it fed off malice, supplied her with thoughts of anger, hate. Hate, like this repulsive being before her.

Sarakk continued his approach, taking his time. He was enjoying this, was he? Foul beast. Of all the souls she encountered in Hell, this was by far the worst. Unforgivable, a schism, a wound in the world. Terrible insect! It would _not_ get past her! She would not allow this abomination to hurt anyone, least of all the souls under her protection!

As he grew closer, Charlie sneered. **“Turn around, before I _really_ hurt you.”**

Sarakk shrugged, his massive frame stepping into view. “Oh? Was that a warning shot? Well, good, I was going to say, if that’s all you had. . .”

She blinked. He was gone. No, not gone. His shadow darkened her vision. The locust flung himself in the air, spearing himself down at her missile. Charlie raised her hands, a barrier of gold light shielding her as the creature collided into it, shell hissing and bursting from the impact as he bore down on her.

 _“. . .you would be in a lot of trouble!”_ he chittered, mandibles cutting clicking together. Despite the volcanic heat searing his claws, Sarakk did not relent. Damn! He was heavier than he looked!

Harder and harder he squeezed, until the sphere of light _cracked,_ causing Charlie to wince. Damn again! She stumbled backward, taken off guard. Sarakk exploited the opportuning, raising one of his elongated legs and making a stomp aimed squarely at Charlie’s head. She tumbled to the side, but before his limb _shattered_ the hard asphalt, fat veins erupting from his impact, sending stones and dust into the air. Grunting, Sarakk jammed his limbs into the freshly broken street, yanking up enormous chunks of debris in his limbs. He cackled, vaulting them towards Charlie, who had just enough time to knock them away with a spark of hot gold.

The bug didn’t let up. He speared towards her, shuddering the air as he bolted, colliding into Charlie as he smashed her into the ground. All four limbs clamped down on her, grabbing her face, applying a vice grip of pressure.

“Can you please just tell me where the arm is now?” he said, leaning, his undulating fangs dripping over her visage.

Charlie’s grin expanded. What an annoying thing!

A loud crack split the air, and at once, Sarakk grunted. A hot line of metal pelted his side, breaking his attention. “Ow!”

That was her chance. She stole the brake in concentration, forcing her legs up before driving them into Sarakk’s abdomen. Combined with her torrent of demonic energy, it sent the insect careening into the air, only to fall back into the ground with a clunky _thud._ Another cloud of debris surged into the air as his frame tore the ground asunder.

Charlie stood, brushing herself off. Looking up, she spied two shadows on the top of the Happy Hotel, a thin wisp of smoke trailing from a muzzle. It was. . . Angel Dust, aiming down the sights of a rifle. She saw him wave. Next to him was. . . Vaggie! Oh, Vaggie! No! They both should be inside! They needed to be safe!

And yet they saved her.

 **“You know, one of my patients is a spider, and they eat locusts,”** she chided, waltzing toward the rising insect.

She stretched out an arm. The air quivered, shifted, and spear of blood metal sprang into reality, a three-pronged trident bearing all the strength of her family’s legacy.

**“Perhaps I’ll roast you, for him.”**

Sarakk adjusted himself, cracking head in a total clockwise fashion, apparently unharmed. “Thinking with your stomach now? I like that.”

Charlie growled. This wasn’t a game!

She sprang forward, and before the lanky beast had time to repel her, she shoved the trident into the gooey membrane of his eye, piercing into it with an earsplitting hiss. Metal, seraphic energy, and heat boiled the innards of the orb, Sarakk blinking, then screaming.

“Waaaaaaagh!”

Charlie _jammed it in,_ forcing it far enough until it was stuck. The beast stumbled, flailing around, trails of filthy, vile blood pouring from the searing socket like a river.

“OGH! AGH! Why!? Why in the _eye!?”_

He froze, staring at the pole lodged deep in his exoskull, flicking at the spear. “Egghg, agh, it stings, ooooh, it stings. . .”

Charlie laughed. **“Want me to even you out?”**

She grabbed the trident, threatening to pull. Sarakk stared, raising his arms.

“Whoawhoawhoawhoa! No, nononononono!”

 _Schlink._ With a gruesome pop and sputter, Charlie dislodged it, sending a spray of blood into the air, Sarakk shrieking and wailing.

“YEEEEEGGH!”

A geyser of sticky liquid belched from the popped socket, Sarakk prodding at the vacuum in his skull, whining like a child.

“Noooo! THAT WAS THE GOOD ONE!”

Charlie smirked. She had to admit, watching something so vile wallow in its suffering was amusing. Delightful. Delicious, even! Why, no wonder her Father dallied in tormenting souls for eternity! How positively _tasty_ its screams were. She could do this forever. . .

She stopped. No, no! No. Count to four. Breathe. Take back control. This wasn’t her way, this wasn’t what she did. Besides, there was another problem: Sarakk wasn’t dead. Despite his attempts to mash the sticky remains of his eye back into its socket, despite the grievous wounds, he wasn’t deterred. Why!?

When it was clear his eye was nothing more than a bloody chunk, the locust chittered with something mimicking a growl.

“Agh. You know kid, I’m starting to get pissed off.”

She clenched the trident. **“That makes two of us.”**

What would it take to put this thing _down?_ Hoisting the spear, she volleyed it into the insect, breaking the air with the strength of her throw, colliding into the bug and flinging him backwards. With another wailing scream, he was sent careening until he crashed into a building, impaled upon the brick. That should keep him busy!

Sarakk sputtered the moment his carapace clapped against the harsh building stone, sending cracks and veins through the structure. Debris fell, demon passerbys fleeing as they caught sight of the erupting violence. The locust sighed, gazing down at the pronged weapon pinning him into the brick, trying to tug it off. Some of his entrails were starting to spill free, along with bits of food he’d eaten from before! NO! Not the precious food!

“Buggeryfuckerynogoodlittle. . .” he grunted and squirmed, trying to dislodge the Devilish metal from his frame, though it was buried deep, and the searing heat essentially melted him into the building. How very irritating. How far was he thrown back, anyway? He looked ahead – couldn’t even see the girl anymore, especially since she took his FUCKING EYE.

You try to be polite and _this_ is what happens? Sheesh. No manners with this new generation. This was embarrassing – it couldn’t possibly get any worse.

_Child._

Sarakk froze. Oh no.

_CHILD!_

A dark voice pierced his mind, fracturing and reassembling it like someone set off a hundred little bombs in his brain. Sarakk grit his mandibles. Take the drill out, would ya’?

_WHERE IS THE ARM!?_

Abaddon. One thing his lord was _not_ was patient.

Sarakk offered a dry chuckle. “Workin’ on that, hanging out at the moment.”

_YOU HAVE WASTED TIME!_

Gagh. Every word was like a hot poker getting shoved into the deepest, gooiest recesses of his head.

“The hell I have! I’m sorting it out right now, big guy. Honest. Just having some words with daddy’s little monster. Hey, is she supposed to be an irritating little whore of like, infinite power?”

There was a pause. Not the good kind of pause, not the ‘thinking things over’ kind of pause. The angry kind of pause.

**_YOU HAVE REVEALED YOURSELF TO THE SPAWNLING!?_ **

“. . .yes?”

**_HAVE YOU NOT FELT THE INFERNAL TEAR!? HAVE YOU NOT FELT HIM? SOMETHING HAS MOVED, THE VOID HAS SHIFTED! USELESS INSECT!_ **

Sarakk “blinked.” Tear? Moved? Void shifting? What did that mean? Oh, wait a second.  Oh. _Him._

“Wha! Well how was I supposed to know the old traitor was hanging around in the same place as the fucking _Devil’s Daughter!?”_

A voice commanding a hundred hurricanes swept over Sarakk, but it was tinged with something a little different: the tiniest speck of fear.

_THE TRAITOR HAS SENSED MY MOTIVES! THE ARM IS BEYOND OUR GRASP! WE MUST CAPTURE THEM – ALL OF THEM, AND THE REND THE ANSWERS FROM THEIR FLESH!_

Sarakk wanted to laugh. Just capture Charlotte no problem, eh? He was amazed daddy dearest hadn’t appeared to rearrange his limbs into a cute little jigsaw puzzle for his monstrous spawn.

Again, Sarakk wriggled. “Yeah, just give me a few. . . years, I’m sure I’ll wear her down by then.”

Ohh Abaddon was _not_ having this humor.

_IT WAS FOOLISH TO TRUST YOU. I WAS NAÏVE TO SEND ONE. I WILL SEND THEM **ALL. AND I WILL SEE TO THIS MATTER PERSONALLY.**_

Send them all? Oh shit.

Finally, Sarakk plucked the demonic needle from his chest, causing him to wail and fall into the ground, squashing a staring demon into a fine paste.  Grumbling, he stood. How many times did he hit the asphalt today? It was getting old. The trident – annoyingly enough – dissipated too. Guess he couldn’t do the whole ‘eye for an eye’ thing.

“Personally? You said you were collecting your strength, big guy. Wouldn’t want ya’ to pull a hamstring.”

_MY STRENGTH WILL SUFFICE TO EXTINGUISH THIS CITY._

Hmm. Maybe so. He was an immortal; he had all the time in the universe.

The locust stretched. “If you say so.”

Like a disease, he came back. Distant demons ogled him with a mix of amusement, confusion, fear, but mostly amusement. Couldn’t blame them, his carcass was peeled open in a few places and he was pretty sure he dripped pieces of _himself_ on the way back.

Just like before, the insufferable little sprout from the Archangel’s garden was there, waiting for him, still glowing with her Father’s energy. Pah. Didn’t even earn the strength! By what right did she claim such power!? She didn’t know a _damn_ thing! The Father, oh, he was the real one, who had all the moxy to spit in God’s eye and make a world for his own. Drove existence into the pulp of the underworld on sheer malice alone. Takes a real pair to look at your creator in the eye and say _no._

But this welp? Bagh! Youth truly was wasted on the young.

Charlie sneered. **“Oh, mister Sarakk, you’re not looking well. Would you like to lie down?”**

He shrugged. “Tell you the truth, I’ve been much worse. Let’s just call this an _intimate_ workout.”

Even behind her manic grin, the bug could tell this didn’t please her. Poor girl. Any lesser beast would be a timid puddle of pulp by now.

The trident appeared in her hand once more, spun around in threatening flair. **“Oh? Well you know what they say – don’t skip leg day.”**

Agh. Well. He’d give her this – snide little harlot reveled in the suffering of others. Good girl. All that posh pleasantness was a lovely facade, but behind it, oh she couldn’t hide her nature. Daddy’s not a kind man, my dear, no matter what he said. He passed that rot right along, now didn’t he? If only he could see his smiling abomination now, all tiitterpated with boundless power, flaying him like a weekend barbeque. Cute, if it wasn’t so annoying.

He stretched his arms. “Sure, sure. But, would you mind if I invited some _friends?”_

Charlie peered. Something strange caught the air. Slow, at first, a steady cold gripping the wind. The air grew thick, and a rumble of thunder shook the sky. Thunder? Why? As Charlie took a breath, she tasted. . . blood. And then the sky grew dark. Clouds, like fat black snakes coalesced into view, blotting out the piercing pentagram hanging above. She drew her gaze upward, eyes widening. Sparks of red blossomed and erupted from the smoky atmosphere, writhing and shifting and breaking. Something was coming.

She glared at Sarakk. **“What are you doing!?”**

The creature laughed, spitting up sticky black blood. “Wohaha! You think _I’m_ doing that? Oh no, not me.”

The darkness above undulated and bloated. More cracks of thunder cut the air. Tiny shapes appeared, small things, falling from above. But there were dozens of them. Hundreds. _Thousands._ Falling, careening into the city below like lines of hot red, scattered about, as if flung by some unseen hand. Some of them landed behind Sarakk, vibrating the ground with a loud _crack._ Then more, and more, _and more!_

They jittered, coughed, hacked themselves to life. They were like Sarakk – locusts. But smaller, half his size, wingless, eyes lifeless and black. But they gurgled and chittered and screamed in a horrid chorus of _noise,_ noises no soul – living or dead – should make. _Kh kh kh. Kh kh kh._

Charlie watched in horror as meteors of these _things_ fell all over her home, far into the horizon. How many were there!? Too many, far too many. And more were arriving behind Sarakk, creating a bloating horde of swarming fiends.

Sarakk was positively tickled. “See? I’ve got friends too.”

One of the lesser locusts appeared at his side, hacking, vomiting little rivers of acid, struggling to move like it’d been born moments ago.

“Er, alright. More like acquaintances.”

The deformed, hideous seed of Abaddon stared Charlie down, as did the others. Behind Sarakk, shadows crept forward, crawling, skittering hordes of lesser locusts, all chittering clicking, _salivating. Kh kh kh. Kh kh kh._

Sarakk stepped forward. “Now can I have the arm?”

Charlie blinked. Even with all her reservoirs of power, even with the seemingly boundless corridors of energy she possessed, she couldn’t stop them all! There were too many! What about the people!? What about the Hotel!? She couldn’t let him forward, she couldn’t. She could fix this, she could, but it was no longer on her terms. There was one think she remembered, one thing to keep her friends safe against this coming torrent.

Wordless, she spun around and dashed back into the Hotel. Sarakk gawked.

“What!?”

The lesser locusts clicked in confusion too. He shook his head. Whatever. At least she was inside the building now, like canned meat. But no way the snot ran off like a coward. She had something up her sleeve – they _always_ did.

He pointed to the Hotel, looking over the swarm of his wingless brethren. “Get in there and _bring ALL of them_ to me.”

He’d prefer this was all tidied up before the big guy got here. Cause if not, Abaddon would likely flay him alive for, oh dunno, the next few centuries or so? Guy had a real thing for causing pain.

A loud BANG cracked the sky, and one of the locusts exploded in a cloud of chunks and limbs. Sarakk boggled. Another shot? From above? Oh dammit, that’s right! He swung his eye upward, spying the culprit. The spider. The spider and the moth. Was that a moth? Whatever, it was a moth now.

“Except **that one,** ” he hissed, voice so cold it formed vapor in the air. “I’m gonna eat that one piece by bloody piece.”

-*-

Vaggie dropped her hands, having covered her ears. A thing snake of smoke left the muzzle tip of Angel’s rifle, promptly turning its target into an unrecognizable spray.

“Uhh, dis ain’t good,” Angel mused, tilting away from his sights. There were maybe a few too many _hundred_ of whatever the fuck those things below were. His _Mauser_ was a reliable old lady, but even she couldn’t pelt off a seemingly endless horde of mini-bugs.

“No shit!” his counterpart exclaimed. “We gotta’ get back inside!”

Angel shook his head, defiant. “The fuck I am! I’m protectin’ what’s mine!”

He looked at her. “And no oversized cockroach and his stupid-ass buddies are gonna’ take that from me!”

This caught Vaggie off guard. Was he serious? She’d never seen him like this before.

“Well? Ya’ gonna’ gawk at me all day or help!? Can ya shoot or what?”

Vaggie stalled. Was it better to seek safety, or fight? . . . Fight. All her life she had to do it. Surviving gang-infested streets, dodging cartels, learning how to use every knife, bat, and gun at her disposal. She wasn’t a scared little girl anymore. If Charlie was willing to put herself on the line, then so was she!

“Yeah. Yeah! I can.”

Angel nodded. “Good. Get to my room and. . .” he took a spare hand, shoving it into his cleavage, yanking out a key, pressing it to her. “Open my toybox, yeah? Big closet. Get _everything_ ya’ can grab!”

Vaggie took it, nodding. “Right, right.”

As she moved, Angel grabbed her. “Oh! And uh, get me some _CoverDemon_ All-Day strength and uh, _Smoky Gunshot._ Liquid kind.”

Vaggie stared. “Are you kidding!?”

He glanced back, rolling his eyes. “Bitch, do I look like I’m jokin? I’m a mess! Why don’t ya grab some for yourself, you could _really_ use some new color, toots.” Of course she didn’t understand – good eyeliner and mascara was a matter of life and death.

She clenched her fist, ready to sock him. But. . . instead, she smiled. “Maybe I will.”

Wordlessly, Angel returned to his sight, yanking the weapon handle and loading a new around while Vaggie dashed off. _Make it snappy,_ he thought, before squeezing off another shot.

Didn’t take long for the raucous below to take notice, _especially_ the big one. His heart sank. Oh fuck oh fuck! At once, the mass of greedy gremlins charged and leapt forward, screeching in unison as they charged the hotel. Shit! He formed a grenade from his fetid soul, lobbing the explosive into the mass. The explosion scattered a few of them into fiery chunks, but did little to hold back the tide. Oh FUCK! They were gonna’ tear into the door and eat everyone and get up here and. . .

The _second_ the first of them made it to the entrance, it vaporized. A shearing, seething barrier of gold erupted around the Hotel, like a veil of fire, shielding it from the oncoming horde. At once, the numerous locusts bounded into it, but every one of them screamed as they were extinguished, fizzling into naught more but flesh and smoke.

Angel Dust wheezed with laughter. Oh damn! What was _that!?_ Chuck had some surprises in the ol’ dump, did she?

“Yeah!” he shouted, his extra two arms flipping off the congregation below. “Suck on a fat dick, ya’ fucks!”

He must have pissed the big one off, because a moment later an _entire car_ came flying towards his head, only to vanish in another burst of hot, white light. Guess somebody was mad.

Curious, he loaded another round, taking aim at no locust in particular. Trigger squeeze, loud bang. To his delight, it hit one of the feral freaks! Ooh, baby! Now that was some salt in the wound! Shots go out, but nothing came in. Which was good, because the sky was _suffocating_ with these literal buggers.

Caught up in the adrenaline, Angel almost didn’t realize. Wait. If this was happening, then what was going on? His victory was short lived, because a terrible, frightening thought drove into his mind. Anon. What about Anon!? He was gone, was he. . . gone-gone? If all these insects were swarming, that means the “Bad Guy” wasn’t too far off, right? Did he. . .

No. _NO._ He refused this. He couldn’t accept it. Would not. Things would turn out okay. He said he’d come back. He always came back.

Angel Dust remembered, Anon considered _him_ the strong one. _Him,_ of all people. So, fine. Fuck it. He’d be strong. He said he’d protect his home, he said he’d protect Anon. He would.

Vaggie appeared soon after, thank dick, clumsily carrying a few boxes. She swung it to Angel’s side, and they clacked together. Plenty of submachine guns, assault rifles, bats, knives, chains, and an ice pick for good measure rested within. Enough ammo and firepower to start a little revolution, eh?

“Here,” she huffed, collapsing next to him. “God, Angel, you have _a lot._ I didn’t even know.”

He set the Mauser down, shifting from his prone position. “If one thing ‘daddums’ taught me that was useful, it was guns, so. . .”

His arms fished passed her, retrieving his real prize: makeup! With a delighted smile, he pulled out a mini-mirror, flicking it open while he scrubbed his eyelids clean of the teary smears. Vaggie hissed.

“Angel!”

He laughed. “Ey, relax. If you’re so horny for shootin’, grab granny. Ya’ can at least work a bolt action, riiiight?”

She grunted. “Yeah, yeah. . .”

More snickers. “I’ll do you next, if ya want.”

Vaggie went prone tone, looking down sights and holding her breath. Trigger. Squeeze. Bang. The noise was ear-piercing, but, not much she could do about it.

“Later,” she conceded. The barrier held up – something _else_ she didn’t know existed, but, questions for another time. It was a welcome breather, but, even she could see the literal fireballs thrown from the sky, impacting other parts of the distant city. And the locusts just _kept coming._

-*-

Okay, this was irritating.

Sarakk was _sure_ everything was all neatened out now. Abaddon was drowning the city in his lesser brothers, should’ve been like walking into a candy store and forcibly removing the staff. But no, little miss “I have the powers of the Archangel” just had to pull a stunt like this, didn’t she? Typical.

Seeing as how the hordes were positively _not_ getting through the fire barrier, some of them started to flee. Annoyed, Sarakk snared one, only to violently chuck it straight back into the obnoxious shield. It, of course, squealed and exploded, but that’s what you get for deserting the battlefield, even if it was a completely logical decision.

Now? Now he was angry.

_Just a little fucking bit._

Suppose, like with everything, he needed to solve the problem himself. He stalked forward, shoving past the fading horde, who were now plenty content to chitter in fear, watching their better approach. As Sarakk neared, the sheer heat of the barrier cracked against his carapace, a buzzing whine droning over him. The closer he was, the more it _burned._ Like touch acid. Like touching the _sun._ Some straight from the power of Lucifer, no doubt.

He shoved his hand into it. At once, blinding white light consumed his limb, like he’d pressed his claws into an ethereal magma. It chewed and burned and drove spikes of inextinguishable pain right into every neuron his body possessed. Any sane being, mortal or no, would yank their hand back and step away. It’d be stupid to move forward.

He moved forward.

The core of him _refused._ The exiled essence of his vacuous, ignored soul screamed with rage. Hate. Hate. Hate. HATEHATEHATEHATEHATEHATEHATEHATE.

And it was enough, this feeling, this sensation drawn from the fabric of Abaddon, to sustain him. It didn’t matter the light tore and burned and stripped away his shell, leaving black, charred remains. Didn’t matter it boiled and vaporized his remaining eye, set his entrails ablaze into a crisp of nothing. Didn’t matter. The engine of his master’s will spurred him on, and bit by bit, his four limbs pulled and tore and yanked through the veil. The magic fought back, intensifying with every _centimeter_ he drove further, but it didn’t stop him.

Slowly, his form broke through, the yolk of the firewall having obliterated the exterior of his frame. What remained was a skeletal horror, eyeless, wingless, but with the dimensions of a locust. Smoke rose from his decimated bones, the heat radiating off the singed body enough to scorch the ground.

He groaned, a pillar of smoke vomiting from his otherwise useless lungs. The only thing sustaining him was the same revulsion for all existence, the only gift he could truly appreciate from his lord.

He spoke, unrecognizable. “Whe̶̡re̴ ̷we҉r̡e ͟w̷̴͜e̴?̕”

-*-

“I can figure something out.”

You stared at the barrier of gold, defiant. It didn’t have to be this way. It didn’t! There was an answer, there was _always_ an answer! ALWAYS!

Hox watched you, quiet. He watched you pace back and forth, running your hands across every inch, angle, and dimension of the vault entrance. God, there had to be _something!_ You’ve done this before, you’ve done it a hundred times! Every vault has a key, a lock, something you can break!  You just, fuck, YOU JUST NEEDED TO FIND IT!

“I can fix this!” you say, desperate. “I can fix it! I can FUCKING FIGURE IT OUT!”

You banged on the thing, screamed at it. It couldn’t go down this way, it just fucking couldn’t. You did everything right! You did _everything_ right!

A sigh. A tired, exhausted, accepting sigh.

“Anon.”

Shut up, fuck. Shut up Hox, please. Just shut up. You couldn’t turn to meet his eyes. You couldn’t. You both knew what needed to happen. But you refused to accept it.

“Just let me,” you say, head pressed against the door. “Let me do something right, Hox. _Please.”_

You heard his footsteps. Quiet, slow. A hand came to your shoulder.

“Anon,” he said again. You turned, looking. He looked old. Worn down. You hated it. Because he accepted it. He gave up.

“Hox. . . no. . .” you started again, voice trembling. He shook his head, shuffling with his inner pocket, pulling out the cigar.

He cut the tip, pulling out a lighter and igniting the end. “I’m tired, Anon.”

You couldn’t stomach seeing his eyes. You had to look past him. “I’ve been at this for so long,” he continued.

“I don’t even remember who I was. What I did. Been spinnin’ my wheels, done every heist I can think of. All in all, I think it wasn’t too bad.”

You’re about to speak, but he stops you. “It’s okay. It is. I knew this was gonna’ happen someday, one way or another. But, if it’s like this, then so be it.”

You clench your fists. Your heart hurts. Why? Because. . . he was your friend. He showed you loyalty. He had no reason to. He had no reason to risk himself like this, or do anything with you, for you. He’s the reason you’re here. And you’re the reason _he’s_ here. This is your fault.

“Why,” you sputter, weak. “Why goddammit.”

Hox takes a long, deep draw from the cigar, savoring it, before blowing it out. He shrugged.

[“That’s the way it is.”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JsLK4_Idk18)

You want to do something. Anything. “I can fix this,” you say again, hoping, this time, you’ll figure it out.

But there’s nothing. There is no answer beyond what must be done. You could never win. You’re a thief.

He gives a dry chuckle. “You can. But not with me.”

His hand nudges you in the chest, touching your 1911. “It’s gotta’ be you.”

You stare. No. No fucking no! It’s hard enough for things to happen this way, but you can’t be the one to do it, you FUCKING CAN’T!

“Not me,” you say, shaking your head. “No, Hox, I can’t. . .”

Hox snorts. “Enough. _Enough_. You can. You’ve done it before. It’s just like every other time. We’re thieves, right? It’s what we do. And, if I do it myself, ain’t a sacrifice, is it? No chances taken. C’mon Anon.”

He looks down, closing his eyes. “Be a professional.”

Another deep sip from the cigar, before tossing it away. His gaze goes the dais, giving it a mournful stare, a man prepared to meet his end, fall into his grave. It’s not glorious. He will not go charging into the night, banner raised. He will fall here, whimpering, used like an object, a sacrifice to something else. You’re the only one who will remember him.

It’s like you said. He’s expendable.

The words fill you with venom, with poison. It’s your fault. It’s all your fault.

Hox goes to the dais, standing over it, a quiver in his stance. He faces the door, hands in pockets.

“Oh, almost forgot,” he said, looking at you one more time. “Fuck you.”

You can’t say anything – what good are words now? There’s no solution, no path, no answer but this one. If you hold back, everyone will die. Angel will die. Losing Hox is enough.

You hold back the hot salt hitting your eyes, retrieving the pistol. You take position behind Hox, trembling, a feeble hope filling you, praying that something, somewhere, somehow, will answer you. Save you, save you and Hox. But there’s no else out there.

Just you.

“Tell the Bois I’ll miss em’.”

You clench your teeth. Anything else you say will just feel like a mockery of his sacrifice. You can’t continue a conversation with a dead man.

You choke, swinging the barrel up and aiming at his head. The most merciful thing you can do, now, is end it quickly.

He shifts slightly.

You squeeze the trigger.

You don’t even hear the noise. You don’t even see the body fall. Or the blood seep into the ground, into the dais. He’s there, and then he’s not. You have to turn away, and you think you’ll be sick. You’re furious, you’re angry, with yourself, for everything. Now the consequences have come to pass, and your actions put risk to all. There is only one chance at redemption now.

Your bleak musings are interrupted by the dismal hiss of the gold frame behind you. Hox’s frame bubbles and boils and wreathes in black shadows, as the port ‘accepts’ its key. It swallows him whole, devouring his essence, his soul, using his essence to push the golden doors open. He is utterly gone, extinguished from the coil of this plain. He will never come back. The Hox you knew is only a memory now – and there’s nothing to retrieve his soul, because it _doesn’t exist_ anymore.

You bury your face in your hand. The weight of everything is falling upon you. This is it, Anon. This is what it all comes down to. If you don’t figure this out, then Hox isn’t the only one you’ll never see again.

You turn, slowly, trying to ignore the spot where Hox _used_ to be. The vault, mocking in its fashioning, pulls ajar at a tedious pace. As it does, a cold wind erupts from it, a chill touching your very essence. This is it.

You approach, holding your pistol – as if _that_ would help all things considered – stepping into the chamber. You were expecting a host of new traps, some infernal mechanism to drop down and smite you right there, or maybe toss you into some machination of eternal torment. But. . . there’s nothing. Nothing but a small room, shaped like a circle, coated in a gentle red, and at its center, a pedestal.

On the pedestal is Eden’s Apple.

Your heart hammers, your breath catches. Christ among the dead, _there it is._ It’s what you needed. It’s what you can use to fix this, fix everything, and do something _right_ for once in your entire, rotten existence. Hox is gone, now make it mean something. But how?

It sits there, plain as the fruit it dares to be, nothing strange or odd about it. You assume you can hold it with the _Saint’s Arm,_ and from there, will a desire to fruition. But what? What!? You have _one_ chance, one chance to stop Abaddon and save the only other thing meaning anything to you. Alastor said Abaddon was an immortal. If that were the case, you don’t think a simple wish like “destroy Abaddon” will work. You can’t destroy the Destroyer.

Fuck. This thing would have some kind of monkey paw shit, wouldn’t it? How could you be absolutely, completely certain he was stopped? Could you move him somewhere? No, no he’d just return eventually, and it was all for naught. Something with time? Go back in time and prevent his creation? God, no, and who knew what kind of insanity warping with time might do. Again, you pace, staring at the Apple. It was so quaint, sitting there, tormenting you with an answer refusing to present itself. Fuck this, fuck all of it.

Hox still weighs heavy on you. What would he have said? What would he wish for? Shit. _Shit._

You try to calm down, but you can’t. God, Angel. If only he was here. He’d know. He’d comfort you, hold you, grant you the wellspring of strength driving you here in the first place. You just wanted to see him again. You'd give anything to kiss him one last time, to hear him say "It'll be okay." It hurt. It all hurt.

You stopped. Hurt.

What was something an immortal couldn’t be. . . hurt. Because it was ever living, never dying. Then, you just needed to. . .

Make him mortal.

But, no, _no,_ that wasn’t good enough. Mortality alone assured nothing. Abaddon – for all you knew – had an oceanic strength capable of decimating reality, life everlasting or no. How could you be certain his mortality was his end? You’d have to think like him, for fuck’s sake.

You froze. It was like something snapped in your mind, cogs whirling in perfect unison.

Was that it? Was _that_ the answer?

How do you stop an immortal? You make it mortal. How do you make it mortal?

**You become it.**

You want to weep. That was it, wasn’t it? Yes, yes absolutely. If you inflicted Abaddon with the weakness of your mortal soul, he’d cease being a terror. And if you _were_ Abaddon, you knew, with all resolution, he would die.

. . . but wouldn’t you too?

You laughed, weak. Your throat was hot. Yes. Yes that seemed to be the way of it then, wasn’t it? You’d go down with Abaddon. There was no other solution – and the longer you waited the more endangered everyone else was.

Hah. Hahaha. Hahahahaah.

You stepped forward, reaching out with the Saint’s Arm. You forgot about the cigar. You forgot about everything. Tears poured from your eye.

There was no going back.

You closed your eye. In your mind, you saw the building. The rain is cold and you want to go inside, so you do. The interior is warm, welcoming, full of fragrance and laughter. You look to the table, spying your friends from before. But. . . this time it’s not the men. It’s everyone from the Hotel. Vaggie, Charlie, Husk, the Bois. . . and Angel Dust.

Angel Dust looks at you, and he smiles. He gestures for you to come sit with them, his eyes full of love, waiting. You step forward. You sit with them.

The Saint’s Arm reaches out and clenches the Apple, your sole purpose in mind. _Become Abaddon._ You focus on it, harder than anything you have in your entire life.

There’s a light. There’s a flash. Your soul is ripped asunder. You were there.

And then you aren’t.

[That’s the way it is.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KnrGMHhnqrw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued in Part III.


	14. The Hotel - Part III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The finality, the end, the moment where all things conclude.

**The Hotel – Part III**

 

Charlie heaved, hands to knees, heart racing, lungs sucking in precious air. Beads of sweat dappled her now-hornless forehead, her gold hair frayed from the sheer exuberance of her family’s strength. To say tapping into the raw vein of her power was exhilarating did it no justice. It was the kind of raw, boundless energy capable of shifting mountains, creating storms, rending entire worlds asunder. A cosmos, even, of infinite potential. And she had only _touched_ it. How much further could she go? How much of that righteous, profane light could she embrace? And Father was _stronger?_

She grabbed her chest. However, the might of the Archangel came at a terrible price. Every second, every moment she coaxed it along, drank from its wicked fountain, she felt new things, different things, frightening things. Sadism. Reveling in the suffering of others. The desire to torment, to weave and engineer delicious punishments for all souls, to see mortals and demons and angels alike twist in agony for uncountable eons. And it felt so. . . good. As though it were _right._ She had to pull away from it, yank herself out of the furious abyss. For it was the truth of her line, the nature of her Father. His was a purpose driven by _hatred,_ a rejection of his creator, a rejection of _creation._

Hate, the same kind that wretched bug powered itself on. Hate, the thing bound to consume her city. She couldn’t fall in again.

For now, at least, the Hotel was safe. It taxed her to activate the veil, but worth it. It could keep anything at bay, even something as wretched as a Nephilim. What to do about the city, though, she wasn’t sure. She assumed, by now, her Father would do something – but perhaps he thought this was another purge? Perhaps he was too busy, being lord of the Underworld and all. Or perhaps he didn’t care.

Pangs of guilt ran through her. Her people. . . were they dying again? She felt helpless, despite her power. If she left to help them, she’d leave the Hotel at risk. If she stayed, the city was in danger.

A voice broke her grim musing.

“Miss!”

Husk stumbled down the stairs, holding his hat, the Goat Bois fluttering next to him. His usually surly face was instead replaced with a wide, fearful expression, a natural reaction to the occurrences outside. He eyed his mistress with cautious concern – part hoping she wouldn’t _singe him_ to pieces right there, part hoping she was okay.

Charlie nodded at his approach. “Mister Husk.”

The Goat Bois bleated, going to their mistress, helping her straighten, though she gently nudged them away. “I’m okay, I’m okay. Thank you, Bois. Just a little winded, is all!”

She offered a cheery smile, much to the confusion of her staff.

“Yeah, winded, that’s one way to put it,” Husk grumbled, looking past her. He blew a sigh of relief – at least Chuck held together.

“What the _hell_ was all that!? Ain’t never seen you toss out such a lickin’!”

Charlie flushed, rubbing her head. “Oh, it was nothing, really! I just needed to escort an unpleasant visitor off the premises, is all!”

The Bois exchanged a skeptical, uncertain glance. Husk wasn’t convinced either.

“Uh huh. Remind me to _never_ get on your bad side, Miss.”

She smiled. She didn’t know why, but she grabbed all three of them, hugging tight. Husk stiffened, blushing, but didn’t resist, while the Goat Bois – though taken aback – slowly returned the embrace.

“I’m so glad you’re all safe,” she said, releasing them. When let go, Husk cleared his throat, readjusting his hat.

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered. “You too, Miss. What’s going out there, anyway? This ain’t no purge! Never seen anythin’ like it!”

Charlie looked between them. She didn’t even know, not completely. But she understood it was _bad._ The air possessed a foul flavor, as though it were tinged with blood, and the sky darkened, a curtain of smog-black bearing chittering abominations and blotching out the horizon. These were signs indicating something worse than a purge – this was an apocalypse.

But she would protect her friends, no matter what.

She slowly shook her head. “I’m not sure. But it’s dangerous, for everyone. And I won’t risk the life of a single guest here!”

Husk gulped. Lives were at risk? The Bois shuddered, huddling together. They looked to their leader, staring with desperate hope.

“We need to remain inside,” she said, adopting a commanding tone. “No one can get in, but no one can leave.”

Even Husk grasped the situation’s severity, the Bois bleating with fear. “. . .damn. We’re up shit creek, huh?”

Charlie dawned a determined expression. “Not if we stay in the Hotel.”

A ping of realization hit her. “Wait. . . where are the others? Where’s Vaggie and Angel?”

The muffled sound of gunfire filled the room. Husk pointed upward.

“Shootin’ the shit, literally. And smiles, ain’t seen him for a spell, the damn spook. . .”

Charlie’s brow furrowed. Alastor always did vanish when it suited him. But the others! They were at risk! Charlie would take _no_ chances – everyone needed to be together. That was the only way through this, whatever the end result. Together.

She caught her breath. “We’ll find him later, I’m sure he can take care of himself. But Vaggie and Angel!”

Husk nodded, understanding. “Gotta’ get to em. Might as well, they’re having all the fun!”

Thrown into a dangerous situation wasn’t Charlie’s idea of fun! But, at least Husk had some humor about it.

“Stay close then,” she said, guiding her friends past the foyer and to one of the Hotel’s elevators. When she reached to press the module, however, a deep and violent rumble shook the hotel, causing dust and debris to fall from the ceiling. She stopped, as did the others.

“Uh. . .”

Husk clenched his teeth. “Maybe. . . that ain’t the best way. We might get stuck.”

Charlie huffed. “Okay! The stairs then.” This procured a long groan from Husk, regretting his words.

“M’not drunk enough for this shit.”

Charlie twirled, casting him a look. “Hey! Language. And come on, it’s not so bad.”

“Speak for yourself!” he said, pointing to the Bois. “Don’t got wings like them!”

Raz and Daz looked at each other, snickering. Husk frowned, becoming every bit the sourpuss he was.

“We’ll be _fine,”_ Charlie reassured, “But we need to get moving now bef-”

An abrupt, tearing sound broke her off, loud, cracking _thuds_ like something was throwing itself into the side of the Hotel. The Hotel!? Charlie spun, eyes wide. Through the amber windows, she spied a silhouette, massive in scope, a frame as dark as sin, _crawling_ its way along the side of the building. It was slow, but each elongated limb jammed itself into the resilient brick, forcing shattered veins to sprawl through it. Fear snared her heart. No! Something got through! But how!? No, no, not something, _someone. . ._

It was the locust again, the hideous Sarakk. He’d gotten through! And he was scaling the building! But, why, where was he. . .

Angel and Vaggie! They were in peril. If Sarakk managed to tear his way through the veil – a channeling of raw, Archangel energy – then what in Devil’s creation would stop him!? She clenched her fist, gritting teeth, ready to take the fight to him again. The moment she tapped into the source of her strength, though, she felt the same furious, overwhelming hatred, raw and pure. It was too soon. If she dove in again, she might not come back out. She might actually _enjoy_ this extermination!

Husk noticed the noises too, flinching. “Miss!?”

She glanced back to the trio, voice tight. “We need to get to the roof, _now!”_ She bolted through the foyer, the Bois speeding with her, Husk swearing as he jostled along, holding his hat.

In her mind, seeds of panic started to blossom. What was it going to take to stop all this? Was there an end? Hox, Anon, they were gone. . . did they leave, did they abandon the Hotel? Was her only hope in the hands of a thief she never really knew?

She tried not to dwell on it. Her other friends were in trouble, and time was running out.

-*-

A roar of fire belched from the Thompson submachine gun, pelting the hordes of small locusts below in cracking clouds of hot lead and guts. It was an ugly, clunky sound, but it made a mess of whatever it was aimed at. Vaggie had to admit, she could see why Angel liked dragging around four of these.

He was at her side, content to lob another batch of explosives in the sea of insects surrounding the Hotel. When Vaggie burned through the drum mag, he gave her an annoyed look.

“Ey! _Squeeze_ the trigger, genius! Don’ pull, this ain’t Chuck’s hair!”

The muzzle hissed with smoke, Vaggie popping off the clunky drum mag, grunting with annoyance. “I _know how to fire a gun,”_ she growled, flushing. “And I don’t. . .”

A chiding laugh. “Yeah, yeah, whatever.” _Bet sweet miss sunshine likes it rough,_ Angel mused, sneering inwardly.

He stroked the barrel of his own chopper. “Gotta’ treat it like a cock. Tease it. Be gentle! Build er’ up nice and slow so you get the most out of the tip!” He clicked his tongue, winking at her.

She rolled her eye. “God, _Angel!_ Where do you come up with this shit!”

“Pff! It’s like ya’ forget I’m a comedian!”

Vaggie wanted to respond, but Angel cut in with another flurry of gunfire. Three of his babies sang with a chorus of roaring bangs, all firing in sequence, but taking pauses between shots. It stung Vaggie’s hearing, but, could’ve been worse. It was a welcome distraction from the ugly noises erupting below them. More of the locusts fled as they were maimed into clouds of sticky black, Angel standing and raining hellfire. Spent casings clicked against the rooftop with a shower of metal, Angel pausing only to reload. All things considered, this wasn’t so bad.

The problem was, there wasn’t an _end_ to any of it. Beyond the Hotel, the streets were clouding with the miniature freaks, with stones of fire falling from the sky. The distant horizon of Pentagram City burst and groaned with explosive plumes, met with the far-off opera of screaming demons. How many were dying? What was happening out there? They could fend this off, sure, but the rest. . .

“They keep coming. . .” Vaggie intoned, grimacing. Despite their safety and relative success of shooting away the horde of creatures, they just never _stopped._

Angel grinned. “Yeah, they will when ya’ do a good job.”

She gave him a look, and he returned it with a proud expression.

“Are you even taking this seriously?” she said, _squeezing_ off more rounds of her weapon. He scoffed.

“I’m up here, ain’t I?”

Before Vaggie responded, a noise caught her. Something like, like a pop. Gunfire? It was muffled. Another.

“Huh?”

There was another bang, harsh, like stone was cracking apart. She swore it was a gunshot. But. . . Angel didn’t fire his weapon.

Again, another sound, louder this time. It was like rock and metal tearing, intermixed with the breaking and snapping of. . . bones? It was awful, a sickening, grotesque audio, and Vaggie was sure the cretins below were up to something. She looked over the edge of the building, giant neon sign washing her in pink light, expecting to see fumbling hordes flinging themselves into the magic barrier.

A massive claw came over the edge, slamming into the Hotel, sending chunks of brick everywhere. Vaggie yelped, thrown back by the sheer force of the collision.

“Whatthefuck!?” Angel said, tumbling back and training his guns on the. . . hand?

No. Body. A shadow appeared. A head, scorched and burned and seared, socketless eyes “stared” down Angel and Vaggie, smoke erupting from its exposed throat and cavernous wounds.

“ _Bits. . . bloody bits. . .”_ The mangled mandibles squirmed and clicked together, only partially working.

Cold fear consumed Vaggie. How’d it get here!? How’d it get past the barrier? It was the same, massive insect from before, the one Charlie threw around like a ragdoll. And yet it _still_ wasn’t enough. Now it was just _fucking angry._

Alarmed, Angel aimed his weapons on the shape, spitting drum-fulls of bullets into the scorched carapace. They might as well have been raindrops, bouncing off the creature, plinking pathetically to the ground below. Didn’t matter the spider blew through every round in his mags, the thing didn’t give a _fuck._ Best weapon he had now was insults, apparently.

“H-heh, plastic surgery would really help ya’ there, pal,” Angel chided, nervous fright gripping his stomach.

Sarakk glared directly at _him._

**“YOU.”**

Ugh, the voice was like nails scraping hard metal, a charred vocal box attempting to force sound in the air.

Angel grunted. “Yeah bitch. Me.”

The effeminate arachnid didn’t know what the fuck this bug was supposed to be, or where he came from. But it was clear his arrival was in direct relation to Anon leaving, and the notion formed a pit in his stomach. A bleak reality weighed on him – that perhaps Anon, _his_ Anon, his thief, had failed. There was no end in sight to the tides of screeching things falling all over Pentagram City, and this Sarakk was _relentless._ How could one even stop that? But no, no. He wasn’t gonna’ think like that. His boy always came back. Always. Right?

Sarakk clambered forward, throwing one of his claws out to drag himself along the roof. It nearly crushed Vaggie, but sensing danger, Angel sprang and yanked her away as the limb collided into the structure. The resulting cloud made them cough, Sarakk’s figure pushing through it. He was nothing short of hideous – his carapace all but gone, yet still he moved, wisps of greasy smoke wreathing off his body, compelled by a malicious force.

Again, the titanic bug threw himself forward, throwing one of his talons into the roof. Angel squeaked, holding Vaggie tight and spinning out of the way against the harsh ground. They were lucky this thing was slowed; his blows had enough force to turn their bones into confetti.

Angel gripped his comrade hard. “Y’allright?” he muttered, shielding her with his back. Her breaths were fast, her chest hammering.

“I think so. . .” she grunted. Angel turned to see the massive insect stare him down. What a tool.

“I think this cocksucker has it out for me,” he muttered to her, releasing his hold. They booth stood, Vaggie yanking out a knife, brandishing it. This would _really_ be a good time to have her Seraphim Steel.

“Ain’t that right, toots!” Angel called over, hands to mouth. “Wanna’ piece of my ass, eh? You know, I’d fuck anybody for money, but _you,_ eesh, pal, I’m makin’ the exception. Feel honored!”

This time, Vaggie squeaked. “You’re pissing him off!”

Sarakk made a sound, something like a deep, black growl, so harsh and laced with malice the air around him trembled.

“Babe, _look_ at that, I don’t think he can get any _more_ pissed,” said Angel, twirling free a few of his own blades. Not like they’d do him good, but his babies were knocked to the wayside.

“You’d be wrong,” spat Sarakk. He raised his hands, wiggling them. “I will push these _into your skull and suck the jelly from your eyes.”_

Angel Dust made a noise. “Blugh, spoilers. Who writes your script ya’ fuckin’ bootleg cockroach? Edgy teen in their fuck-you dad phase, m’guessin?”

Vaggie grit her teeth. She could appreciate some snark once in a while, but this wasn’t a game. This _thing_ was the closest she’d ever come to real, genuine death. It could kill them. It. . . just might.

“Are you trying to get us killed!?” she said, nerves rattled, clenching her teeth.

Angel Dust gulped. He was playing with fire, if that fire had four arms and a whole lot of _absolutely going to fucking kill you_ going on.

“Just keepin’ his eyes on the showstopper, baby,” he said, flashing his gold tooth. The insect wasn’t even looking at Vaggie now – er, well, his empty sockets weren’t, anyway. But that was the idea. Angel could buy her enough time to skidaddle, she could get Chuck, and hopefully, have daddy’s little monster drive her foot into the remains of this skeletal freakshow’s rectum.

A bead of sweat dripped down Vaggie’s head, hand quivering. Shit, shit. Could they even hurt it? It pointed at Angel Dust, making a noise that sounded like. . . laughter.

“Say one more word,” he threatened. “One more. And I’ll start with your tongue.”

Angel quirked a brow. “Ooo, kinky.”

To say that Sarakk was ‘on him’ was an understatement. It was as though the locust fractured time, splitting seconds into pieces, and moved within those pieces. Like a black, buzzing blur he went from a few meters away to right in front of Angel. Before the spider had a chance to close his eyelids, he was on the ground, back slammed into harsh brick, the wind knocked loose from him. Angel sputtered, gasping, desperately trying to suck in air as the locust held him down. The knives Angel held loosed from his grip, pinned, wincing in pain.

Vaggie shrieked, having only a moment to react. She leaped, driving her knife into what she _hoped_ was the creature’s neck, twisting the blade in a desperate attempt to kill the fucking thing, force it off Angel. She might as well have been a gnat swarming a giant. Viscous blood erupted from her blows, but it was clear Sarakk wasn’t deterred by her strikes, if he even noticed her at all.

A choking emptiness consumed Angel’s chest. His vision was filled with the destroyed, ravaged body of that horrible, soulless insect. Sarakk stared him down with those bleak sockets, and at once his free claw made good on its promise – driving itself into the spider's mouth. Angel tried to wriggle free but was utterly helpless to do so, panic devouring him. His eyes watered, and he whimpered. No, no not like this, please no. He didn’t want to go like this. He had to live. He had to see Anon again.

“ANGEL!” Vaggie screamed.

Instinct spurred him to act. Remembering that he was _Angel fucking Dust,_ his extra limbs sprouted, drawing on the demonic energy of his twisted soul. But those arms weren’t alone. The two spare hands manifested lit explosives, which Angel jammed into Sarakk’s writhing maw, shoving the bombs as far as they could fucking go in that undulating face.

“HggLLLK!”

Sarakk made a gurgling, gagging sound, the grenades buried into his crispy orifice. Before Angel could retrieve his hands, though, there was a sickening _crunch._ The cutters _sheared_ through the spider’s soft flesh, separating hands from wrists, an explosion of pink blood erupting from their wound. Angel’s lungs exploded with hot air and pained coughs, throat muffled, white hot agony spearing through his extra limbs. His only salvation was Vaggie, who tugged as hard as she could, giving Angel a _moment_ to push himself away from the titanic fiend. Sarakk drew back, tasting blood, though clawing at his throat, trying to pull out the metallic seeds planted within him.

“Vaggiegetdown!” yelled Angel through clenched teeth, holding the nubs of his injured arms.

She boggled, immediately dropping her grip as Sarakk flailed, a chorus of irritation erupting from him. His claws sunk into the hard, burnt flesh of his jaw, _splitting_ it open to pull out the objects so rudely plunged into his body. This talon touched the metal an-

An implosion erupted from his visage, a geyser of fire pushing out of his sockets. An air-cracking BANG shattered his cranium, consuming it with greasy smoke and flame. Chunks of hard shell went careening everywhere, a vomit of black blood spewing from the chunks of Sarakk’s utterly obliterated head. The body swung aimless, dancing around the rooftop without direction or cause.

Angel Dust coughed, hacked, saliva dripping from his chin, sucking in air, Vaggie rushing to him. Panicked, she hoisted him up, scanning his bloodied stubs which dripped with the yolk of himself.

“Shit! Angel!” she shrieked, glancing from him to his injuries.

He trembled from the pain, but, forced a smirk, clutching himself and coughing. “Mm’okay,” he managed. “Thanks babe.”

The two watched the locust body march around, a fragment of Sarakk’s exoskull remaining. It was like chewed meat, unrecognizable, a barely-connected mass of bloodied pulp.

But he didn’t fall.

Gurgling, bubbling sounds popped from the missing head, until the body stopped moving. It stiffened, twitching, _turning._ One of the claws raised, leaning towards them. He wasn’t dead!

“Are you TWISTING MY DICK?” Angel bellowed, hacking, in absolute disbelief. What, did they have to set a nuke off next to this fucking bugger!?

Vaggie, though, wasn’t about to chance their luck. She tugged at him, pulling him to the rooftop doorway, keeping a firm eye on the shuffling remains of Sarakk. He wasn’t stopping. Maybe not dashing towards them, but Sarakk had a bead and wasn’t giving up. She pulled Angel to the door while the spider shook his fists, flipping off the not-corpse.

_“Stupidmotherfuckerwhyaren’tyoudeadshiteatingbugfu-!”_

They managed to escape, slamming the door behind them, rushing for safety.

Sarakk stumbled, wobbling, but refused to collapse. He tried to form words, but all that came out was a sputter of sickening, sloppy sounds. He must have looked a mess right now. What would the big guy think? Tossed around by a little girl and then blown up by a spider.

He’d get them, though, even if it took an eternity. He’d rend them piece by piece. Normally, he left the punishment stuff to Abaddon who could get _really_ creative – but give the locust a coloring book and he’d concoct his own arsenal of torments. Just had to fucking _catch them._

He forced his legs to move on pure malice alone. He shook. One more step. He trembled.

Trembled? That was strange. He wasn’t afraid, despite the tremors in his form. It wasn’t him, though (honest). It was like something shook the air, sending vibrations through the ground. Even through the partitioned remains of his face, he also smelled blood. Not his blood, no, this was a particular stench, very specific.

Everything went quiet. Deathly quiet. The skittering masses of his smaller brethren ceased. They halted their momentum, freezing. Their chitters silenced. They became a sea of shapes dotted with gleaming red eyes. Every single one of them looked to the sky. Sarakk stopped.

His brethren wept. Every little locust raised their arms in jubilation, collapsing, to their knees. Even Sarakk could not resist, falling, a malevolent force cast over him, one of such raw, unrepentant hatred. Anger and obliteration made flesh, a True Son. A sweeping chorus choked the air, the thousands and thousands of swarming locusts screeching one word: Akon. The tears, the tears, they were not from sorrow or pain or misery. It was joy.

They screamed in unison.

_AKON! AKON! AKON!_

In their horrid language, it meant Icon.

The Icon of Annihilation. He was coming.

-*-

A cold, pompous raucous of laughter slithered from Sir Pentious’ maw. He glared at his interface matrix, wearing a devious grin, utterly overwhelmed with delight at the sight’s below. The streets were in chaos, consumed with some bothersome infestation of blithering bugs. A foolish horde of mindless chaffe! Lesser creatures unworthy of his time! But, it was the _perfect_ opportunity to strike Pentagram City – again!

With his New And Improved Egg Ship ™, Sir Pentious possessed all the resources needed to finally take over this wretched city and soon, the entire Underworld! And this time, no strutting little tart would get in his way, bombs or otherwise (he made sure to explosion-proof his windows, you see).

Like a Victorian oval, the NAIES (Nice, get it? I thought of that one myself! “That’s AMAZING, Boss!”) pumped pure, neonic energy into the streets below, several cannons blasting in random directions, sounding colorful clouds of vaporized debris and demon into the air. With everyone so preoccupied with the insects, there wasn’t a single gang, lord, or boss who could cause him trouble! Even the insects splattered against his machine, entirely useless against his genius!

As he cranked the levers to his master control, shifting the vessel left, he cackled.

“Those FIENDISH FOOLS _dare_ not stop my territorial takeover! Again! _Thisss time,_ I’ll bring the city to its feeble knees with my masterful machines of mayhem!”

Around him, a crowd of Egg Bois – inbred little servants – wailed with joy. Some threw themselves at each other, some hugged, some touched Pentious a little too inappropriately.

“Yeah! You show em’ what for, boss!” said #14, throwing his stick arm in exaggerated fashion.

Pentious dawned an expression of smug satisfaction.

“Those lame brains aren’t as smart as _you,_ boss!” said #44.

“Shoot them with your raygun, boss!” chimed #101.

One Egg Boi looked crestfallen. “He still won’t shoot _me_ with his raygun,” said #34, sighing.

Pentious swatted some of them away, straightening, returning to his monologue.

“Once this ssstorm passes, ALL will look up to see their new ruler! And then, EVERYBODY will know how cool I am!”

More cheers of jubilation. Wine popping, close fondling, you know, the whole nine yards. One of the Eggs wandered close to the observer’s window, looking through the pink glass, wearing a dumb smile. The destruction below was a colorful orgy, and Pentious’ machinations only added to it. Wow! Boss sure was smart and intelligent and also very hot! He’d totally take boss out on a date!

The Egg looked up, squinting. Something caught his attention. “Hey boss!” he called, pointing through the window.

“What’s that?”

Pentious hissed. He was in the middle of an important monologue! How dare one of these yolk-brained yuppies interrupt him! What nonsense was possibly more important than _him!?_

Pulling his gaze up, he spied the subject of interest. Nothing! It was nothing! Some stupid light show of red electricity! Focused into a singular point! Heaving itself from the clouds, causing his machine to whine erratically and. . .

Something screeched. So loud, so deafening it splintered his NAIES to pieces, the control module exploding in series of pinkish sparks. The window frame cracked and shattered, numerous Egg Bois outright bursting in a yellow paste as the air ripped itself open. The flying machine burst into fiery plumes, warning alarms blaring as it slowly started to collapse to the ground. Sir Pentious shrieked, the Egg Bois falling over each other in panic, the NAIES tilting to its side until colliding into the streets of Pentagram City.

Fortunately, Pentious had an escape plan: JUMP OUT! He managed to escape, forcibly ejected from his craft like a flying wet noodle, thrown unceremoniously into the unforgiving asphalt, some of the Bois splattering over him.

His “ears” rang. What was that!? Who dared!? What hair-brained harlot dare impose his devious deeds!?

He hissed, rising, clutching his head. “WHO’S RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS? SPEAK UP!”

“Hey _tubesteak!”_

Sir Pentious looked, spying a sight most familiar. And irritating.

Cherri Bombed smirked down, tossing one of her scarlet shaded explosives in hand, sitting cross legged on a pile of insect corpses. She wore that sneer – that insufferable, smug grin – chiding Pentious with her presence.

“Nice fireworks, shit-twizzler. You lookin’ to get your teeth kicked again, grandpa?”

Pentious snarled. “YOU! Again! I should’ve known this cowardly assault was _your_ doing!”

She laughed, hopping down from the pile, threatening. “I don’t know what you’re on about, old man, just looks like your tinker-toy hotbox broke a hip!”

She made a coughing sound, miming a coughing old man. “Maybe ease off the vape, edgelord.”

It was enough to be insulted by a prom-queen reject, but to assume he’d stoop to such low-intellect levels to strike with lightning!? He’d see her vaporized into molecules!

“I had NOTHING to do with your cheap tactics, strumpet!”

One of the surviving Egg Bois tugged on Pentious’ coiling tail. “Hey boss, look!” It pointed to the sky, Pentious looking to see a vortex of red cripple the air.

Another agonizing pulse shook the wind, an impossible sound cast over the whole of the Underworld. Unnatural, unholy, from a darkness long, long forgotten. True hate, old hate, the kind of hate born in the first days of Hell, concocted from the splinters of castouts, the remnant of an exile’s fury.

Cherri grabbed her ears, almost collapsing, and Sir Pentious could _feel_ the scream in his eye, like it was scraping into his soul.

An ugly, chewed torso crawled into view, a head with a single limb, one of the locusts. Tears streamed from its blank, red eyes, and it sputtered words at the two.

“Bow your heads,” it spat. “Bow your heads. Bow your heads. BOWYOURHEADS!”

Pentious glared, and Cherri kicked it away. She stared back at him, snarling. “Okay, tubesteak, you’ve got three seconds to explain what the FUCK you’re doing before I-”

A dread chorus muffled her words, erupting from every corner of Pentagram City. Akon. Akon. Akon.

AKON, AKON, AKON, AKON!

Shining rays of scarlet pierced through the black clouds, drenching the sky in a hue of dark blood. The air tasted of salt and copper, heavy, hot and thick.

-*-

[Bow your heads.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4hVj32UmUyQ)

Every single locust, every insect, every servant following the will of Abaddon collapsed to their knees, consumed with the mania of worship. Their tears turned black, weeping rivers of blood, forms writhing and twitching and shaking. It mattered not where they were, or what they were doing. Every last one of them raised their limbs, screaming and chittering and yearning.

“O father! Shine through us! Upon us, grant resplendent light! Know all the named and nameless! Spare us! Extinguish us! Be merciful and without mercy! Blacken the sun, poison the rivers, spurn the crops, disease the flesh, sunder the soul!”

“Of eyes, who see through windows of light, of souls above and below, of minds not here, of words silent, weep with us, extend your arms and beholden this embrace, thou lord, thou father, above, carrier of wrath, paragon of the end, bringer of annihilation, maker of the black sun, a True Son, Icon of Annihilation, Bringer of Joyous Death, of pox, of rage, of fury, touch him, embrace him, cry with us! Cry with us! Cry aloud! CRY ALOUD! Cry from your station, your burrows, your homes, your lives, and repent not, and be without joy, and be with only hate, and forget all love, forget all hope, and make us thou brothers, make us thou family, abandon all, abandon all! You are with us now, you are with our words, join our concert of mania, now here in these songs! We see you! We see you! Of mind that cannot be known! So come to us! Raise thou arms! And cry! Cry aloud!”

“Father, lord! Abaddon! ABADDON! TAKE HIS NAME! WE ARE WITHOUT, AND HE IS WITH US! ABADDON!”

**_ABBADDON!_ **

Reality fractured.

A line of unknown red, an impossible hue of scarlet, stripped open the fabric of the wind. From it, born were red snakes of lightning, cracking like tendrils in erratic directions, vaporizing any and all things it touched. Everything went quiet, complete an utter silence, as if sound itself was yanked out of existence.

Colors evaporated. Light ceased. Everything converged on one single point, a cluster of movement, hot electricity writhing and squirming like angry worms. All points fell upon themselves, gravity shifted, even the skyscrapers warped and bent, pulled by the magnanimous power ripping its way into the Underworld.

In a flash of acidic white, something erupted into life. The residual explosion and shockwave were so immense it could not even make a noise. In proximity, some things were instantly extinguished, be they demon or building. Every eye, every mind, every fetid soul gazed up, up into the skyline to see the ruinous form of flesh coalesce into existence. The air was hot and heavy, sparks rising from the ground, unholy rays of illumination drowning every corner and home.

Hence, comes, the reckoning.

There arrived the titan, the Annihilator, a form consumed with so much hatred his flesh soured and boiled over, broken and tangled, like an assembly of beings thrown into one. Even his own form mocked him, and for that, an infinite wellspring of spite existed. His soul was without comprehension or meaning. It was neither bright nor vacuous, it simply was. Where once glorious, black feathered wings stretched into the horizon, now they were diseased remnants of their original glory. Where once he was bequeathed with Nephilic armor resistant to all the woes of creation, only his remnant, wounded body remained.

And yet, it was enough.

With his single arm, Abaddon raised his mangled hand. A massive chunk of earth heaved upward, tearing apart buildings and infrastructure, all metal and manner of life carried into the sky, helpless, thrown into a malicious orbit as the Destroyer started his cruel work. Though this form was weakened, a pitiful shadow of his earliest days, it was more than enough to rend destruction upon all things below.

Excited, repulsive laughter erupted, the seas of locusts throwing themselves around in a dance macabre of glee. He was here! He was here! And soon, _no one else would be._ They bounded about, vomiting laughter, with renewed gusto setting themselves upon the city, slaughtering any and all things in their path.

The Saint’s Arm was well beyond Abaddon’s grasp, putting his work at risk. So, he would annihilate the entirety of Hell, here and now. The Apple would not stop him. Not even his own master, the Devil. Soon, Lucifer would be made to see the error of his ways, and once again, return to His crusade against all Creation. But first, He needed reminding.

_KNOW THAT ALL IS LOST. KNOW THAT YOUR RUINATION IS HERE. ABANDON HOPE, ABANDON JOY. LOOK TO THE SKY._

A voice without sound cast itself over the city, driving into every mind. Like freezing black rivers, like eternal, dying suns. Some cracked and fell apart at the mere intrusion of his chorus, the energy of his voice enough to split them asunder.

_YOU WILL KNOW MY NAME. I AM ABADDON. I HAVE PLANS FOR YOUR CITY._

Abaddon drove his fingers into the festering entrails hanging from his wounded stomach, scraping forth the Tongue of Man. The spear – blistered with rust – would be the tool to sign the death warrant of this loathsome plain. This city was an orgy of lights and steel and sin, a mockery of Lucifer’s true purpose. So coated and drowned in this veil of self-indulgence, the master drifted from the path.

Abaddon pointed the fork at the creatures below. His presence mutated the clouds, broke the sky, turned air to poison. The spear hissed, searing heat stronger than a thousand lifetimes of hate snaking from its tips. The sheer resolve he possessed for exterminating all life was enough to do this quickly. Now, to bring annihilation to them all.

_No._

What was this? A voice from beyond? A plea from below? No? What foolishness. There was no denying death. You cannot bargain with the apocalypse!

_LOOK INTO ME, AND SEE DESPAIR._

Silence, souls. Accept your fate.

_No._

_NO? NO!? YOU RESIST? YOU DARE? THERE ARE NOT ENOUGH EONS IN THE CLOCK OF TIME TO HIDE YOU FROM MY WRATH! I WILL NOT CEASE UNTIL EVER ATOM IS EXTINGUISHED, EVERY MOLECULE SPLIT ASUNDER!_

_No._

Enough. Abaddon would not suffer the mewling of the wretched city below any longer. He focused his wrath into a single, grand strike, one with enough force to drive a crater into the rivers of light below. His chittering masses, his loyal insects, they fumbled and yelled and cried with glee. Yes, oh lord, yes! Bring us death! Bring us the end!

Once the tip of his fork ignited, all would simply _cease._

. . . _no._

Abaddon’s single limb quivered. What? What was this? Drive forth the will of agony, send a blaze of annihilation, rend all things, destroy creation!

Nothing.

_WHAT? WHAT IS THIS!?_

Abaddon was frozen. Conscious, but frozen. At once, a sea of rage ignited within him, an inexhaustible cosmos of burning hatred – the furnace to all his actions. It demanded satisfaction, and yet, he could not will the fury festering in his immortal soul. Could not lay siege to the horizon. It was as if something held him back, another arm stalling his motives, a separate will.

_FOUL, THOSE AMONG YOU! WHO WOULD CHALLENGE ME!? WHO WOULD DARE DETER THE ACTIONS OF MIGHTY ABADDON?_

Rage splintered the sky, buildings yanked from their fixture, along with hundreds of souls caught within this vortex of anguish. The very presence of Abaddon was breaking the city apart. And yet, some machination stayed his wrath, some presence, some lingering element. Who? Who would dare!?

-*-

A skeletal limb sheared through the doorway, rending it open. A massive silhouette leaned and shoved through it, cracking and singing the air around it. It did not matter there were only remains of a head lingering on its torso, or that it was naught more than bones and seared carapace. Sarakk would not stop. Would not stop until everything in front of him was a fleshy mush. It was so nice of his prey, then, to leave a trail of hot pink blood.

He gnawed down the soft, tender limbs which so rudely pressed a pair of explosives into him. The proceeding nourishment allowed _some_ of him to regenerate, fragments of shell twisted and wreathing around his frame. Now he only looked _partially_ burnt, a marked improvement. And the flesh he chewed was _so soft,_ too, even carrying a lovely aroma. It was arousing. Was he even capable of getting aroused? Guess that was a thing now. He was gonna eat that spider, nice and slow. Maybe do something else too. . .

Sarakk scrambled forward, finding a new purchase of stamina. Not that he lacked for it, but having viscous muscle tissue helped him _move,_ and scurry he did. He crawled upon the proceeding walls, like the insect he was, tearing paintings and woodwork and elegant wallpaper like so much meat.

Angel and Vaggie, in the meanwhile, did everything they could to put as much distance between mad-mandibles and their skin. They heard him not too far off, thrashing and cutting his way towards them, barreling down the halls. Fucker was fast, bones aside. Angel clenched his teeth, but not from pain. If this thing got to him again, it was curtains. He’d be gone. He’d never see Anon again.

So, _fuck that._ Recalling he was, in fact, a spider, Angel stretched his two hands and ran them across one of the wall sides, thin trails of shimmering silk bridging his gloves to the wood. He zigzagged from side to side, creating a puzzle of web, an invisible silk that, hopefully, might ensnare the lumbering titan for at least a moment.

Vaggie glanced, voice covered with hot pants. “What are you doing?” she said, chest heaving.

“Makin’ space!” Angel shot back, forming an ‘x’ of webbing until there was a tentatively visible pattern of net behind him. Vaggie wasn’t going to question it – whatever worked at this point.

Again, they fled, and Sarakk bolted after, stumbling into an irritating invisible wall of string. Wait, wait, no, not string. He swore – or at least his stripped vocals made a sound _like_ a swear – rivers of black squirting from the muscle.

Angel heard his distant cry, sneering. “Hah! Get fuckin’ caught, legs!” he called back.

Sarakk felt the webbing snare him, holding him in place for. . . a few seconds. It was unusually strong, and the more he forced through it, the more it lashed back with a tense grip. But he was a Nephilim, and you needed more than an arachnid’s trick to hold him back.

It did enough, at least, to give the duo some time to make it further down the hall. They bounded towards one of the hotel stairways which lead down. They froze when they heard more footsteps.

Below, a pair of figures appeared in their peripheral, followed close by two smaller ones. Charlie! The others!

Vaggie gasped, yelling down. “Charlie!” she screamed. “Charlie go back!”

Wide, caring eyes gazed up to see the panicked Vaggie and injured Angel. She did the entire _opposite_ of going back, running straight for her friends. She was overjoyed, but concerned. She collided into Vaggie, embracing and twirling her lover, kissing and kissing, face flush. Angel smirked but resented the sight – not because it wasn’t lovely – but because he might not get the chance to do it with Anon again.

Fuck, stop thinking like that.

“Bmmf!” Vaggie squeaked, taken aback. But, slowly, she returned the embrace, breaking it with the realization of impending terror on her heels.

“You’re safe,” murmured Charlie, an exhausted Husk and bleating pair of Goat Bois following behind her. Charlie glanced at Angel.

“You’re hurt!”

Angel Dust shrugged. “Been worse. Don’t worry ‘bout it, they grow back.”

Husk grumbled, resting on his side, dappled with sweat. “Can. . . we. . . take a. . . break. . .”

Vaggie snapped to attention. “No. No! He’s right behind us!” Husk frowned. Did he really have to go back down?

Charlie released her girl, dawning a determined expression. “Where? _I’ll deal with him.”_ She wasn’t sure what diving back into the abyss of her family’s power would do, but, she had to take the risk. There were few options remaining.

“The hell you will!” said Vaggie, stamping a foot. “We all will!”

Charlie’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not lett-”

Angel cut in. “Ey, chuck, I love ya’ babe. But shut the fuck up, will ya! This is our home! Ain’t nobody takin’ that from us!”

Razzle and Dazzle looked between each other, before giving a firm nod. “Baah!” bleated Razzle.

“BAH!” chimed Dazzle.

Despite his coughing and hacking, Husk nodded too. “Yeah, yeah. Together. Fucking whatever.”

Charlie was outnumbered, looking between them all, her friends, her patients. The people she swore to save and protect. Their eyes were set, their minds resolute.

“I. . .” she started, tearing. “I love all of you.”

Something cracked the wall a few meters from the group. The skeletal frame of Sarakk clambered into view.

“Famous. Last. Words.”

Charlie spun. Sarakk was alive and angrier as ever. But then again, so was she. Her eyes danced with scarlet and she brandished her trident, the crimson prong in front of her. Her group rallied behind her, ready for a fight they couldn’t win.

“I’m so glad you all got together in one place,” he hissed, taking slow, cracking steps toward them. “Makes the whole ‘killing you all’ thing a lot easier.”

Charlie scoffed. “You’re eager to die today, pest.” Everyone readied with her. Vaggie twirled a knife, Angel pulled out a pistol – since his babies were MIA – Husk scrambled for his revolve and the Bois. . . did their best to look menacing.

Sarakk snickered. “That’s the spirit, kiddo.”

A pregnant pause filled the air, hot tension forming between the insect and the group. Charlie clenched her weapon, threatening to unleash a torrent of _herself_ all over again.

“Take one more step and-”

Everything went dead silent, then white. Blinding energy filled the room, the usual pinkish aura flowing from the windows engulfed, obliterated. All were consumed in an acidic white, devouring every shadow it touched. Then, an explosion, a schism of sound so loud the vibrations rattled the Hotel, shattering windows, cracking wood, sending dust and debris from the ceiling. Everyone – aside from Sarakk – wobbled and fell, thrown to the floor from the sheer _force_ of the burst.

Sarakk went still. His head chunk swirled to look outside one of the shattered windows. A sight so beautiful, so wonderful, so perfect met his gaze. The chunk of socket that was his remaining ‘eye’ streamed with blood, a spring of tears gushing from the vacuum. Joyous tears.

He collapsed to his knees. And laughed. And laughed and laughed and laughed.

Never had Charlie and the others heard such a horrid, deformed cackle. Sarakk buried his “head” into his claws, sputtering, a conniption fit of euphoric chuckles erupting from him, overtaken, consumed. Charlie groaned, pushing herself to her feet. A trail of cold sweat swam down her brow. She looked past the shattered windows.

“IT DIDN’T EVEN MATTTER!” Sarakk chortled. “WE DIDN’T EVEN NEED THE ARM!”

Her eyes went wide. Even from here, out in the distance, an immense figure had coalesced. A wretched body of broken, torn flesh, headless, bearing one arm, dripping with hate, a hate so profound and malevolent she could _taste_ it.

“YOU LOST!” screamed Sarakk. “HAHAHA, YOU ALL LOST!”

Everyone felt their hearts sink, deep and cold, struggling to rise. “What’s he talking about?” said Vaggie, voice tight, helping Angel up. The Bois bleated, and Husk contemplated just staying on the ground, only for the goats to tug him upward.

Angel’s eyes went wide. “W-what?”

Sarakk ceased his attack. Why bother? It was done. This was the end. The Destroyer was here, and if he appeared without interference, all he had to do was move his hand, and the rest would follow. No one could stop him. No one could halt the works of an immortal. In short: annihilation.

Now, Sarakk sobbed with laughter. Charlie felt sick. She had _quite_ enough of this. She growled, lunging forward and driving her trident straight into the thing’s chest, cracking through bone and carapace, a geyser of liquid black pluming from the contact. But it did not stop him. He continued cackling, lost in the lunacy of his victory. No matter how hard she drove her weapon into him, he wouldn’t stop. All she could see and hear was his torn visage and the clogged noises of his laughter.

Furious, a stream of golden light burst from the spear’s fangs, hellish energy striking through Sarakk and sending him careening through one of the shattered windows. Far, far into the distance, but still, always laughing, never ceasing.

Charlie felt a fragment of satisfaction for finally removing the damnable bug from her Hotel, but the sight beyond was nothing short of harrowing. That. . . was Abaddon. What she feared and hoped against, but there was no going back now.

“Nice shot,” Husk grumbled, putting his revolver away. “Didn’t even have to waste a bullet!”

“Baaaah,” sighed Raz, quite relieved he didn’t have to do any fighting.

“Bah,” Daz agreed.

Vaggie stared, amazed at her girl’s power, but also, the thing hanging in the sky.

Angel. . . was trembling. “W-what’s he talkin’ about Chuck?” he said nervously.

“W-what is that thing!?”

The others noted Angel’s concern too. She looked back to them all, sad and apologetic. “We can’t leave the Hotel,” she said quietly.

Husk spat. “Yeah? I was thinkin’ of taking a stroll, you know, seeing the sights.”

Vaggie blinked. “Why? Charlie, what’s happening?”

Charlie’s heart sank. What could she say? Really? The barrier shielding her home was likely enough to resist any further attack from outside – barring an army of things as strong as Sarakk, anyway. As long as they were together, her friends were safe. But out there? If that was indeed Abaddon, a name she only heard uttered a few times among her family, then. . . this was far worse than any Extermination. Nothing would remain.

Was her father even going to act? Was the thief still out there, or did he abandon them? Did he just. . . use her? Use the Hotel? Did she fail him, her people, and her friends?

“Just stay with me,” she said, forcing a smile. “Everything will be okay!”

She tried to adopt a cheerful tone, but it was shaken. The others looked between each other.

Angel, though, he stared. This was what his thief was talking about. This was the thing, that “Abaddon,” the self-righteous prick with a stick up his ass about everything. And if he was here, it meant. . . it meant. . .

The hot sting of tears hit his eyes. This was it, wasn’t it?

-*-

Cold.

Oblivion was cold. A heatless, lifeless tundra extending into infinite nothing. A horizon of white stretching without end. The sun did not move, the sky did not shift. Light was immobile, the ground covered in an impenetrable frost. Life was nothing. Death was frozen. Cold. Cold.

Your soul collided into it, stretched and torn and ripped in a thousand fragments. Battered against this hopeless realm, devoid of anything. Devoid of anything, except one feeling: hate. A hate so profound, a hate so deep an embedded into this alabaster reality it _stopped_ all things. A hate so unforgiving, so rejecting of all things it denied the very existence of time. It was a shell, a husk, an engine. From this void, this arctic nightmare, strength was drawn. This was not a soul, nor a reality, not a world, not a universe.

It was just Abaddon.

And you were part of it. Where? Where were you? You couldn’t see yourself. Well, _yourself,_ it no longer existed. You were a conscious, or were you?  You could think, but you could not. You were lesser. You were greater. You were the tiny, immobile worm, the great invisible mountain. You possessed all strength, none of it. Weakness infinite, power unending. And you were also an infection. A disease. Your very presence was ruination. Ruination to That Who Ruins.

You were losing yourself in this great, infinite hellscape of feelingless cold. Hatred seeped into you, froze you, threatened to steal away all that you held dear, all that you wanted or ever loved. And you only loved one thing.

This place was devouring you, chaining you into its freezing grasp. The longer you stayed, the worse it was. This was folly, you saw that now. Clear and absolute folly. Even the infectious presence of a mortal could not erode the will of Abaddon. How? He was an immortal, concocted in the beginning, drawn from the cloth of Lucifer. And you? You were just a thief. Just a thief. . .

. . .

So steal, thief.

Only one thing anchored you, kept the spark of yourself intact, retained the tiny fragment of your consciousness in one place. A vision, a dream, a thing you’ve seen many times over. The building on the corner, the people inside, waiting. But the building – this time – it was the Hotel, and inside, your friends. Yes, friends. Despite your actions, your manipulations, your greed, your selfishness, arrogance, they were still your friends. And one of them loved you.

If you had a hand, you’d reach out and grab the thought, hold it close, clench it like the most valuable jewel in the underworld. You can’t. The “you” no longer exists, just a shadow, a germ rolling through the mind of a demigod. But it’s enough – it’s enough to sustain you, this thought, this act, and keeps you together, despite the torrent of freezing, unforgiving oblivion surrounding you.

It’s enough. It’s enough the cold starts to thaw. A timid glimmer of warmth, of feeling. The weakness of mortal. The obsession of love.

This was your gift to Abaddon. The futility of a mortal soul.

You do not have eyes, yet you close them. Darkness. . .

-*-

The wounds of a thousand eons hit you at once. Your flesh is covered in infectious boils, your intestines seep from you torn abdomen, your bones are shattered and held together by sheer malice, your missing limb seeps with a venomous blood, and you don’t even have a head to scream about it.

This is pain unlike anything you’ve ever experienced. Every centimeter of your rancid, decaying body is roiling with anguish. Even the spear, the Tongue of Man, is agonizing to hold, the rusted, hot metal rubbing your pale palm raw and bloody. Your organs are misplaced, and some don’t even function. Your heart beats like a war drum, and the sheer force of your power cracks your skin.

This was of no concern to an immortal. A pitiful distraction. But there was only one problem: you were mortal.

_WHAT!?_

Your consciousness heaves, snarling, ripping. It’s as though two minds are colliding, wolves ripping each other to bloody chunks. You resist, you fight, but something has gone horribly wrong. The legacy of your creation has vanished! You’re mortal! YOU’RE MORTAL!

No, NO! Impossible! IMPOSSIBLE!

_HOW!? **HOW!?**_

Your own flesh is at war with yourself. With the gift of mortality so generously granted, you feel the weakness of injury rapidly take its toll. Disease consumes you, internal wounds drain you of strength. Even your boundless vistas of power are swiftly collapsing, fading. This is impossible. This cannot be. You are Abaddon! YOU ARE ABADDON!

Nope.

You’re just Anon.

The Tongue of Man, the tool ready to sign the end of this existence, shifts. You redirect it. Not at the city. Not at the sky nor ground nor even a single, rotten soul. You point it at yourself.

A calm feeling takes hold of you. Swift and serene, peaceful. This was it then. This was truly the end. If ever there was a sure way to save your home, to save your Angel Dust, it was this.

You’re so sorry. For everything. You hope he understands. You hope he can forgive you.

You plunge the rusted fork deep into your chest. As far as it can go, striking it into your pulsing, festering heart. The pain is overwhelming, the heat and energy vaporizing your innards instantly, as the raw and remaining strength of yourself focuses on _itself_ , imploding. The impact sends shockwaves through the infinity of Hell, your skin erupting in volcanic veins, bursting, exploding, rupturing. You watch yourself, consumed with red electricity, frayed sparks ripping and destroying and obliterating.

Any last words?

Hmm.

Be good Angel. You’ll always love him.

There is a resulting sound which should not exist, a scream from a voice that should only command, a pain that should not _be._ But it is. Abaddon’s grotesque form crumbles, fracturing, breaking. Wave after wave of explosive energy erupts from his carcass like a thousand dying suns, accompanied by a rage bending and clawing at reality. The fury of failure, the anger of despair. The fist raised against the futility of death.

The chittering clouds of locusts, those that tore away at Pentagram City, all froze. All swung their heads above. Their tears stopped. New, profound feelings of terror consumed them, unlike anything they’d experienced. It could not be. It was impossible! But, no, sure as their vacuous, red eyes saw, Abaddon was _dying._ The great mountain of sickly power was breaking, shattering, energy flung from his dying state like massive tendrils of crackling electricity.

Fall not, thou lord! Fall not! But fall he did.

And so too did his children, eyes bursting and bodies weakening. All around Pentagram City, those were willing to fight notice. The Gadzooks took to their meat grinding vehicles and plowed through rivers of bugs. The Splinters shot from above, splattering heads. Cherri Bomb and Sir Pentious, for the _briefest_ of moments, worked in tandem to decimate the clouds of swarms, painting the streets with a viscous black. The locusts that could flee, did. No hope! No hope now!

Somewhere, Sarakk’s partial remains looked skyward. Wow, what the fuck?

“Did. . . did _I_ just lose?” he mouthed.

That was funny. In a horrible sort of way. He'd laugh, but you know, his lungs were gone.

Where chaos and fury and hate held ground, slowly, it dissipated. With one final bellow, one last enraged siren cast out in the eons of Hell, the thing that was Abaddon _ceased._ His form splintered into a thousand fragments, withering, bursting, until he was naught more than a cloud of scarlet energy. Viscous, hideous blood splattered, raining down upon all of Pentagram City like so many tears. The Tongue of Man shattered into timid flecks of metal, scoured and thrown. The fleshy remains of Abaddon careened into the ground, felling him. Felling the once-immortal.

Nothing remained.

-*-

It’s a strange thing to see victory and only feel anguish.

The Hotel denizens rushed to the roof, in absolute disbelief. They were prepared for the end, prepared for all of the Underworld to perish under the fury of Abaddon’s gaze. But lo, the tyrant was brought to ruin, laid asunder, driving his weapon into himself. Such an act of benign suicide was – quite frankly – not in the creature’s character. It meant only one thing: Anon succeeded.

The how and why were lost to them. Even Charlie wasn’t sure. She mused over inquiring about such an act, but for now.

“Holy fuck!” shouted Husk. “The hell was that!?”

Vaggie stared, silent, in shock. A joyous shock, the kind you feel after escaping death by inches.

The Goat Bois were bleating and baah-ing in excitement, fluttering about, probably ready to dig into a box of celebratory cookies.

Angel. . . did not share the enthusiasm. He gawked. He couldn’t fight back the tears. The reality hit him, hard and uncaring. Abaddon was gone. So where was his Anon? Where was his thief!?

“He’s coming back. . .” he quivered, desperate, looking out into the streets, distant chaos of screaming locusts falling over the group.

He glared at Charlie. “Right!?” he said, tears falling. “He always comes back!”

Charlie withered. She didn’t know. “I. . .”

Angel grabbed her, his face pleading, his eyes raw. “HE’S COMING BACK!”

The group stared, falling silent. Angel sobbed, going to his knees, holding Charlie.

“P-please! Not this! PLEASE!”

He’s coming back, he said, over and over. He has to.

Charlie watched him there, helpless. She couldn’t know. Abaddon was gone, it appeared. Whatever Anon had done worked. The city was safe. The Hotel was safe.

Angel just wept, the others dawning a mournful expression.

That’s the way it is.

-*-

The proceeding days were filled with the Underworld’s greatest PR. _Channel 666_ was more than happy to find its ratings escalate, every demon glued to the screen as they tried to make a sense of _what the fuck just happened._ Numerous souls hadn’t even realized the reality of the situation, didn’t know the literal apocalypse was floating outside their windows. According to the snipping tones of Katie Killjoy and muffled reassurances from Tom Trench, it was a minor inconvenience. Big Daddy Apple was working on a project, you see – there was no cause for alarm. Well, more alarm than normal for the city, at any rate.

Most didn’t believe it. But chaos was such a formality, an _expectation,_ it felt like another day in Hell. So few realized they were on the brink of true annihilation.

Cleanup, then, was the real headache. Streets were drenched in sticky, filthy blood, while mountains of limp locust bodies piled every other corner. Ferals came out of their shadows to feast on the buffet of revolting meat, but others were forced to get the hills of debris out of the way. They were blocking the streets to all sorts of sinful dens, after all. Hard to get the skin-clubs when you’re surrounded by hundreds of corpses.

The Happy Hotel had _almost_ come out unscathed. Almost. Sarakk’s actions had created cavernous holes and cracks in the exterior, while his ensuing chase broke and splintered the wooden frames like fragile bones. Abaddon’s appearance didn’t help, either. It was a headache, to say the least. Husk was set with the Bois to manage repairs in the foyer, bar, and any entrance damages, while Vaggie oversaw the rest such as the stairs and elevator. Alastor, amusingly enough, conveniently returned, assuring he’d help with repairs by broadcasting the Hotel’s needs to the rest of Pentagram City.

Charlie was drowning in paperwork, receiving calls on behalf of her Father, demons wanting to know _anything_ about the Destroyers appearance. She, with tact formality, brushed them aside, reassuring them it was a slight hiccup and they could go back to enjoying their lives (or finally take that first step on the path of redemption!).

Niffty – bless the little mite’s soul – finally returned from her “Manners and Management” courses so she could operate as a hotel maid without, you know, wanting to stab almost anything and anyone. Good thing too, the piles of locusts would’ve driven her crazy. She was remiss to find, upon her return, she already had a literal mountain of work to do.

Everything was getting back to normal.

Except. . .

Charlie gave Vaggie a concerned look. Her girl returned it with a mournful head shake.

“He hasn’t eaten. Hasn’t slept. Won’t talk to anyone.”

Charlie’s heart sank. There was someone who didn’t come out okay. Someone who carried a terrible pain, and her was duty as both caretaker and friend to see him through it. She looked up the stairs. Angel Dust was on the rooftop, closing off anyone and anything. It was hard to blame him. What he was going through. . . a broken heart, his addictions, to name a few. He was used to being abandoned, but this?

Vaggie squeezed her shoulder, granting a weak smile. “He needs you,” she said.

Charlie drew a long breath. Yes. She knew not a single word in all that existed would bring Angel out of his despair, but she at least wanted him to know she was there for him. They all were. They’d get him through this.

The door creaked open. Cool air kissed Charlie’s snowy skin, the distant ambiance of Pentagram City falling over her. Aside from some lingering fires here or there, things looked. . . pretty normal. They were inch from total annihilation, but otherwise, peachy!

If only it was that way for Angel.

His silhouette hung over the rooftop edge, drooped and weak. A trail of smoke sifted from one of his digits, nursing a cig, while his other free hands made tossing motions. He held a deck of cards, throwing one lamely, letting it drift off into the wind. And another. And one more. Watching them flutter off, hapless against the chaos of the city.

Charlie watched, afraid to approach. But she needed to help him, whatever it took.

“Angel. . .” she said in her softest, most caring tone. He didn’t move or react or oblige her. Just kept tossing cards, taking another drag of his cig.

Charlie closed the door, approaching, hands folded together. She opened her mouth to say something, but no words came. What, really, _could_ she say? What could relieve his pain right now? Everything hurt, no doubt, everything a mockery to him. So, she simply stood at his side, looking out at the city, its massive skyscrapers and pink lights stretching off into a near infinite horizon. Another card tossed, flung to the uncaring breeze.

Charlie chanced a look. She flinched. Angel’s expression was as she thought – worn and dragged with pain. His eyes bled smeared eyeliner, thin rivers of black staining his cheeks. They were raw and watery, and his usually sneering grin was replaced by a somber frown.

“Angel,” she tried again. “I’m so sorry for everything. I never knew how close you two were. I. . . didn’t even know him well. But, I know one thing. He saved us, he saved ev-”

“He’s gone, Chuck.”

Angel’s voice was as brittle as a timid branch in the winter wind. It was defeated. Utterly and completely. She hushed, watching him take another drag of his cig. He tossed another playing card, starting to tremble. Words weren’t helping. So she did the only thing she could – embrace him.

Hard and tight, she held his warm, fluffy body close. At first, Angel stiffed, unmoved. But eventually, his form conceded, slowly wrapping every arm around her, dropping cig and the den of playing cards. He sobbed, into her shoulder, collapsing, weeping. What else was there to do? Anon was gone. He saved everyone, but at the cost of himself.

The cards fluttered off, aimless, like souls in the wind. Broken and scattered, like the lives of everyone. Who could truly challenge fate? Who could deny death? Alas, we are but numbers in the greater scheme, random draws in the deck of life. Where we end up, the chaos of reality demands, the pandemonium of the underworld finishes.

As Angel dust wailed with hot tears, a single card twisted in the night air. It passed over the hotel, flung to the horizon. Where it’s journey might end, who could say?

Who could say where things end and begin? The only true certainty was the finality of it all.

Helpless, it fluttered closer to the ground, forgotten.

. . .

. . .

. . .

You snag it from the breeze.

An Ace of Spades. Huh. You stare at it, studying it. You shuffle it in your suit pocket.

Lingering in the distance, approaching from the haze of Pentagram City, your silhouette coalesces into view. A shape, a tall shadow. A single eye peering ahead. An arm reborn. A soul remade. Pinkish lights wash over you as the Hotel strides into view. You’re back.

You’re home.

Charlie glanced to her side, red suit drenched with Angel’s tears. She hoped looking out to the city might give her some relief and-

“ANON!?”

Angel Dust peeled his face from her, giving her an expression of anger, as if saying the name was meant to mock him, hit him with a fresh wave of agony. He blinked, sniffing, wiping his tears. He followed her gaze.

His heart burst with a feeling he couldn’t possibly describe.

This wasn’t real. This couldn’t possibly be real. He choked, leaning over the edge of the Hotel, staring, mismatched eyes as wide as they’d ever been. He rubbed them, again, thinking the tears might have impacted his vision. But, no. There he was. Clear as the night, standing, wind catching his long coat. Anon. His Anon.

His thief.

If ever there was a movement so fast, Charlie witnessed it. One second, Angel was in her grasp, the next, the rooftop door swung open, and the spider was gone.

She didn’t even have time to blink to see the body of white fluff _throw himself_ into the form below.

Angel Dust swims up to you, and he collides. You grunt, and his embrace comes swift, four arms constricting you, so tight, as though you weren’t real, like you might disappear again.

He says. . . something. It’s kind of incoherent because he's sobbing uncontrollably. You don’t fucking blame him. You hurt him, bad, you know this. But he’s still here, in your arms, the only thing that matters you.

He stares at you, face stained and wet with tears. “Youpieceofshit!” he mumbles. “You fucking piece of shit! F-fuck! FUCK!”

You embrace him, hard, burying your face into his neck. He’s trembling, and you are too, just about.

“I’m home,” you say, over and over. “I’m home, Angel. I’m home.”

“I love you stupid piece of fucking garbage!” he screams, going between a mix of elation, fury, sadness, joy, just, damn, all of them.

You kiss him. You press yourself into his warm, smooth lips, and you hold it. He returns it with vigor, like life itself depends on it. Around you, the chaos of Pentagram City hasn’t stopped. There are still mountains of bugs. Some buildings are on fire. Swears erupt in streets. Fights break out. You know, the usual.

Doesn’t matter. It’s just you and him, as far as you’re concerned.

[Just a thief, a spider, and a hotel.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XxCaH0Dgy5k)

**END**

 

_Artwork by ArizonaCoffee_

****

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god. We're here, we're finally here, at the end of it all.
> 
> Reader, thank you so much for joining me on this journey. I had no idea what this series was going to be. Never did I imagine I'd come to this point, or weave a story of this magnitude - all for a show that, as of this date - doesn't have a pilot released. I've learned a bit about myself. I've made an amazing friend along the way. I've joined a great community who share the same infatuation for this idea. 
> 
> I've always spurned fanfiction, never taken it seriously. But diving into this was so liberating and enjoyable. I was put to the test, forced to practice, deliver on a plot emerging in my head. It's been on my mind for months. And finally, for the most part, I can take a sigh of relief. For now.
> 
> All for this a goddamn spider. Angel Dust you beautiful trash fire, this is your fault.
> 
> Thank you, reader, for coming all this way. I hope you enjoyed this timid little story, because I certainly loved writing it.


	15. Epilogue

**EPILOGUE**

 

When your soul collided with Abaddon, it split and fragmented, scattered. You were almost consumed, anchored only by the sheer will to stay _you,_ with, amusingly enough, the love you have for Angel Dust. It was the only thing giving you meaning, and so, you simply remained. How’s that for irony, o’ demigod of infinite rage? Beaten by something as quaint as love? It’s like a bad romcom. Unfortunately for Abaddon, it was real.

With what piece of power the demigod possessed, you manage to keep yourself intact, even after the strike from the Tongue of Man. It took you _days_ to form yourself – before that you were like wind. You existed, but you were formless, a drifting mind.

Enough to come back to your lover. Charlie, of course, had questions and inquiries. How in the _world_ did you do what you did? Alas, admitting to the Daughter of Lucifer you stole one of his priceless artifacts was perhaps not the best call. You scooted by with your head intact because, technically, you saved everyone.

As you attempted to readjust, you didn’t forget Hox. You held a silent vigil for him, remembering your friend, your comrade in crime. The Bois approached you, bleating with curious concern, and you could only give them the card. You don’t know if his relationship with them was over or understated, but they certainly meant something to the old mutt.

You did everything you could to apologize to Angel. He was “mad,” but not _mad._ Just upset, as he had every right to be.  He’d cross his arms, feign a pout, and you’d rub his hand, kiss his cheek, and eventually, he’d give way.

“You’re the stupidest motherfucker I’ve ever known,” he’d say with a grin. “Fuckin’ love you, ya’ dumbass.”

He was right. Unfortunately, he was stuck with you. “You are a foul-mouthed little bitch, Angel. I love you too,” you’d say.

Even Alastor wasn’t pulling his usual Alastor-isms.

“Good show, my dear boy! Good show.”

He extended his hand, and at first, you sensed a trick. But no, he shook it, genuine and real. Maybe. . . _maybe_ he wasn’t all bad. Maybe.

You spent your time with everyone else, too. Getting to know them. Trying to be a bit less of a distrustful prick. This was your home now, these were your friends.

Hmm. No.

This was your family.

Not a moment too soon. The Hotel’s grand opening was only a week or so away.

You know, with all the repairs, the Hotel probably needed money. Money you could, say, _acquire._

You were, after all, Anon: Master Thief.

And. . . you know what? Fuck that.

You see Angel instead. You see everyone, downstairs, having a celebratory dinner. You come down the steps, and they look at you, smiling. Angel nudges a chair forward, welcoming.

You go and sit down.

-*-

Sarakk reclined on the rooftop, overlooking the city, sipping on some kind of sugary, blood-tinted drink. Hey! This wasn’t so bad at all! And these shades? Well, maybe he was in a size _fucking_ huge, but they worked. Sort of.

This was the good life, and he could sure get used to the whole _no longer commanded by a genocidal demigod_ thing. His carapace was coming back too, a healthy shade of shimmering green. Everything was looking up! Even though his brethren were literal remains in the streets, eh, could be worse. He could be one of them, too.

His antennae wiggled. Something was behind him.

“You know, I can tell you’re over there. Instead of doing the whole ‘sneaky’ deal, just I dunno, pull up a chair. I’m feelin’ generous, I won’t eat you. Maybe.”

The figure didn’t move. Grunting, Sarakk tossed his drink and twirled his head. “Hey, look, could ya piss off. . .”

He trailed. He blinked. _What?_

Someone was staring back at him. A strange, yet familiar. Too familiar. One gleaming red eye placed in a left socket stared back, best with a massive, toothy grin stretching from ear to ear.

“. . .You?”

It laughed. Laughed and laughed and laughed, voice like charming, warm oil.

“No no no. I’m the _Better Half.”_

Sarakk blinked. “I feel like I’m supposed to be getting something, but I’m not.”

The figured stepped closer. Dapper, well dressed, extending a hand like he were an old friend.

“All you need to know is you’re going to help me.”

Now Sarakk laughed. “Pahaha. Why? Buddy I just retired. Looking forward to a few thousand more years of eating and, well, more eating.”

The thing gave him a sneer uglier than all the expressions Sarakk had ever seen. One dripping with something terrible and familiar. Hatred. But also. . . greed.

[“Because I’ve got plans for my city.”](https://youtu.be/J5usJDRETRI)


	16. Author's Notes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Small breakdown of TSH.

**Author’s Notes**

If you’re here, you’ve reached my dilly-dallying. First off, thanks reader. It means a lot, from the bottom of my heart, that you got through _whatever the fuck I just wrote._ I’ve been slapping at the keyboard for years, professionally and otherwise. Most of it dealing with. . . anthropomorphic smut. Then, Hazbin Hotel just kind of appeared and, like a lot of people, I fell into a wanderlust.

Anyway, what you’re about to read is just a collection of my thoughts on THS, my decision-making process for some things, links to the music I used, and other ideas I had. Oh, but before I begin. If you’re still hungry for some damn good literature featuring Hazbin related material, I implore you to check out WriteAnon’s “A Peaceful Afterlife.” Yes, I’m shilling for my good friend, but I can’t help it, he’s a big reason I’m here right now, typing these words.

[ **A Peaceful Afterlife** ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17488052/chapters/41188535)

Now that you’ve got your second fix ready to go, I’m gonna’ dive into some rambles. Turn back now. I’m warning you.

. . .

All right.

**List of Music**

One of the fun parts about posting online – something you can’t do with a traditional book – is integrating various media and audio in your work. I took a liking to that, and, sooner than I knew it, threw in music for almost every chapter in THS. For your convenience, I’ll list them out here in order (and thanks Kojima).

  1. [SOULLESS – Blackberry Jam](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UM1owquLl_s&feature=youtu.be)
  2. [Payday 2 OST – Death Wish](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_YyFM3hkIn4)
  3. [The Haxan Cloak – The Mirror Reflecting (Part 2)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dZhhdnegHSA&feature=youtu.be)
  4. [Perturbator – Humans Are Such Easy Prey](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y8DekFFCE5c&feature=youtu.be)
  5. [Daughters – City Song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5NB7RBZ1yGY)
  6. [Carpenter Brut – Roller Mobster](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qFfybn_W8Ak)
  7. [Carpenter Brut – Turbo Killer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wy9r2qeouiQ)
  8. [Midge Ure – The Man Who Sold The World](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IU2wBKoDOzg)
  9. [Aphex Twin – Avril 14th](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PeLuQ6X2ixI&feature=youtu.be)
  10. [Lustmord – Dark Companion](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HYXwwfN914o&feature=youtu.be)
  11. [Dean Martin – Everybody Loves Somebody](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z-2_OstpR5c&feature=youtu.be)
  12. [The SOS Band – Just Be Good To Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BEtnzgxFSvQ&feature=youtu.be)
  13. [Wolfenstein: The New Order OST - Deathshead](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9B355G56Hzw&feature=youtu.be)
  14. [RDR2 OST – That’s The Way It Is (Low Honor)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JsLK4_Idk18)
  15. [Low Roar – I’ll Keep Coming](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KnrGMHhnqrw)
  16. [Behemoth – O’ Father, O’ Satan, O’ Sun](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4hVj32UmUyQ)
  17. [Carpenter Brut – End Titles](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XxCaH0Dgy5k)



These were chosen to help facilitate a certain feeling, or just imply something cryptic on the horizon.

**Additional Thoughts on THS**

This series was never meant to be as big as it was, nor ending the way it did. A lot of it was supposed to be a slightly larger heist as Thief wrestled with his insecurities (or yours, I should say), growing his relationship with Angel Dust. But as time went on, stuff got bigger and bigger.

Here are few ways the story was going to go:

**_It wasn’t originally Abaddon._ **

The creature in the vault wasn’t originally Abaddon, but some kind of terrible mutant demon. A headless thing threatening the Hotel, but nothing so large as a demigod. Then, I started to think about a massive Seraphic machine, hidden away by Macron (Mammon) and his cronies.

More ideas had it as the skeletal remains of a Nephilim, carrying a massive wheel. The wheel was meant to crush sinners, continuing its old goal. Then, it was Akapholos, a demon sometimes referred to in religious literature, a headless demon.

Eventually, Abaddon was just too tempting to not use. Community suggestions drove that forward.

**_The ending was going to get much, much worse._ **

Anon was going to meet a very grim fate indeed.

One draft had you running afoul of Sarakk, only to get your chest crushed in. Angel and Hox (with you in the draft) were shaken, and Angel ultimately used the Apple to save your life. A bad end, and one that was melodramatic.

Another had you saving everyone by “resetting” the story. You would end up at the beginning, running from the Gadzooks, but instead of bumping into Angel, you took another path, thereby never starting the events of THS. That, again, was pretty stupid – and it’s one of the _worst_ tropes in writing (to me). The “you wake up and it was a dream” angle robbed myself and the reader of a satisfying conclusion, purely for shock value.

Another, you were straight up going bad. As a fragment of Abaddon, you realized the power and potential you possessed. You decided to pursue your own selfish goals, and kept the Hotel safe from your misdeeds purely out of remaining love for Angel.

One last draft you went villainous, but asked Angel to come with you. He refused.

Another had you abandoning the Hotel _with_ Angel, going on a spree of self-indulgent crime. But eventually, you two came around to do the right thing.

While dramatic in their own right, none of them felt earned, and once more, I’m a sucker for happy endings. You have to work for them, but when you do, it feels good.

**_Sarin wasn’t a rabbit at first, more of a bug-eyed demon in a hazmat suit._ **

While the idea of poisoning demons remained, Sarin was at first a silent, intimidating spook. Personally, I liked the idea of an obsessive rabbit a bit better.

_**Sarakk used to be more of a reptile, though was always sardonic and sarcastic**._

Realizing that Abaddon’s whole schtick is both destruction and locusts, it was only appropriate to make the mutated Nephilim as such. Sarakk wasn't always a locust though - more reptilian and serpentine. Another draft, he didn't exist, and was instead a more grim, morbid entity. But, I find it's more fun to have strong characters who don't take things too seriously. Everything's a gnat - so why get uppity about it?

_**Thief Anon is you, no matter who you are.** _

I want you to understand something, o' reader: this story is for you. You are, background aside, a component and piece of the Thief. This is your story. Though Thief works with his own identity, the goal is ultimately to create a suitable reader surrogate. I want you to feel this journey, in its own way - no matter how large or small - is something you've taken and grown with. I'm someone who generally tries to obey canonical laws because an accurate representation  _feels_ like the real thing. Granted, it seems like the audience is pretty forgiving, but if it feels like the genuine article, if it  _feels_ like You and Angel Dust, ain't that so much more special? It's my gift to you.

**_You and Angel Dust is basically canon._ **

Oh I know, that sounds like utter insanity, doesn't it? You see, the thing about Hazbin Hotel is the creators  _actively_ embrace the fans, fanworks, and all that entails. They encourage it. Michael Kovach (Angel's VA) is the word of god when it comes to the spider, and I quote, verbatim: "You can ship me with whoever baby, I'll do it." Yes, while it's an off the cuff remark it's basically a green flag. This timeline of You and Angel might as well be its own side series. 

**What’s next?**

As of now, the second series is currently being worked on.

Jump into your next adventure in [The Shadow, The Stranger, and The Angel!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19303651/chapters/45912304)


End file.
